Cosi Fan Tutte
by Ione
Summary: Christine is a aspiring American librettist, living in a small town, who catches the eye of the recluse Erik, running from the ghosts of his past. If he has to kill a thousand men...he will do exactly that to have her. COMPLETED.
1. Chapter One

The music section of the old, decrepit library was poorly lit, musty, and in dire need of a new roof. Closest to the heavens, I had always felt it to be strangely appropriate. The darkness and almost subliminal smell of decay hardly seemed to me to be something to worry about. There were leather armchairs that had lasted for at least fifty years if not more, and I felt that antiquity made the most companionable, and incidentally quiet friend to share the ancient texts with. That was the great benefit of an old library, of course. There were some librettos here worth several times the annual salary of the head librarian. And yet she, poor woman, was so understaffed and harried that she had not even programmed most of these colossal tomes into her newfangled database. While I understood the hassles that the newly discovered filing system would vanquish, I still appreciated the knowledge that these books were the reward only of those who looked for them.

The air of this library, founded three centuries ago by some industrious Puritan or other, was mirrored throughout this sleepy, cobwebbed New England town. Its charm was too dusty to be featured on a picture postcard, and the inhabitants too extraverted to look around them and notice by what beauty they were surrounded, but I, who had first looked upon the place with tired, jaded, European eyes, appreciated the age that mirrored my homeland, but was still in possession of that renewing American spirit. However, as in nearly all of New England, the energy of outward looking and forward thinking America was somewhat overpowering to one such as myself. If their children read at all, it was some new novel by some celebrity or other, who lived a life of such glittering extravagance that his ability to write simple phrases had been irrevocably curtailed. I had attempted one, once. It left such a bitter taste in my mouth that I might have forsworn the library forever. However, the librarian was one of the few women (or indeed, people) whom I had felt the slightest stirrings of friendship for since my move here, and it was her influence that led me to return. And I still wanted, desperately, insanely, to feel as if I could be a member of the human race. She, however, was the only person whom I had ever met, who could tolerate without questions the mask upon my face.

When I first saw her, the one whom my life soon came to revolve around, it was only with a passing curiosity, once I got over my mild shock. She had moved more quietly than anyone I had ever come across. Everything about her seemed to breathe a quiet atmosphere of peace. I, who have made it my business never to be caught of guard by anyone or anything, was literally stunned when I looked up and she was there. I shall never forget that day, if I live another thirty-seven years in this wretched world.

Her back was towards me, when I heard her make her first discernable noise. She was murmuring under her breath, and I thought I heard her say "Tosca." This immediately caught my interest, and, sure enough, when I looked, there was a recording of Tosca wrapped in her delicate hand. And, what's more, she seemed to be looking for a copy of the libretto.

Finding an American who was interested in opera was startling in itself. But what truly made me sit up and pay attention (figuratively, of course) was her age. She was a teenager.

It was fairly obvious to me, though, that she was an outcast. No one single group of people is as adroit at singling out those who are not of their kind as the standard American child. They are, I have come to notice, like sharks, smelling strange blood and new ideas from miles away.

She wore glasses, I saw, and they were well enough worn to suggest that she wore them every day by necessity. Her expression, delicately winsome and not a little irritated, was made all the more charming by a wide, lilting mouth and the most beautifully expressive pair of eyes that I had ever had the blessing to see. It was not that she was beautiful, by any means. In fact, by modern standards, she might appear quite homely. But I have long held myself separate from modern standards, and it was the sum of all her little graces that recommended her so strongly to me.

Her head tilted, and her body sagged with the air of disappointment. She flipped the recording of Tosca over in her hand, and squatted down upon her heels, trying, once again, to locate the elusive libretto. The grace of her movements instantly suggested a dancer to me. The gym bag that she had slung over her shoulder reinforced my estimation, and I watched appreciatively as she bounced once, twice on her heels along the shelves, sighing softly each time she could not locate the volume for which she searched.

I might not have wished to believe in Fate, or God, but one or another of them always seemed to call me and pull in me in the way that I was, apparently, needed. I examined the spine of my book. Treasury of Opera Librettos.

"Excuse me, sir?"

Damn, but she was quiet! I suppressed my shock and looked up at her.

There was no surprise in her eyes, and nor did she give anything but a customary flick across the white leather mask that hid my mockery of a face from view.

"Is there another music section? I can't seem to find a copy of the libretto I'm looking for, and I was wondering if you knew where the opera section might be."

She did not fidget as she stood, her carriage was light and graceful. Had I met her in Europe, I might have hazarded a guess and said that she had royalty in her blood. But her looks held nothing in them but good old American mutt. She waited patiently, not staring, and not uneasily, for my response.

I smiled as I replied. "I am afraid that I must have stolen the book you were searching for. Please, take it; I have read it more often than I care to remember."

She held her hand up in an expression of denial. "Oh, sir, please don't bother! I wouldn't want you to think that I came to you in order to steal the book out of your hand."

Polite little thing. Her objection had every ring of sincerity. "I would not have made the offer if I had not been serious: this is nothing that I do not have at home, take it."

The volume was heavy, but she took it with grace and ease. She smiled, openly. "Thank you sir. I apologize again, I seem to have left you with nothing to read."

My smiled quirked, this time with a more sarcastic bent. "I shall consider it to be my good deed for the day."

Her smiled quirked in much the same fashion. "Then I don't feel sorry anymore. Thanks."

She backed up several steps before turning her back on me. I wondered how she must have been raised, since such politeness was falling out of favor in the young even in my native land. Had she been taught the rules of etiquette? Or did the natural grace and delicacy that seemed to float around her tell her that it was rude to turn one's back directly to one's benefactor, however insignificant that benefactor seems to be?

The darkness of the library, with its lowering ceiling and high shelves, enveloped me once again, but this time I was conscious of the light that drifted in through the small warping window. Something about that girl had lifted the shadows for me, and I felt myself reluctant to return to them. Standing quite abruptly, hearing the old leather sigh and squeak in both alarm and gratitude, I stood by the window, having to bend to see through it properly. Until she left, I was not certain that I was waiting for her.

Her dark curls blew wildly in the freshening spring wind, and she hastily tucked her book and her recording into one of the side pockets of her bag, almost as if afraid they would be damaged by the air. Then, tossing her hair and opening her arms to the breeze, she sauntered (there could be no other word to describe it) down the quiet, tree-shaded lane and turned right, heading towards the town's Main Street.

That was how I first met Christine Day.

Even after her first abrupt and yet somehow natural interruption in my life, I did not think of her as much as I might give the impression. She was young, graceful, and oddly attracted to things that spoke to me. Yet I had no idea what her character was, what truly moved her, or how she behaved with others of her kind. No, I knew too little to be obsessed with Christine. In fact, I made little to no effort to discover either her name or her place in the town. She had been a curiosity, no more. But I did keep an eye on the CDs that were borrowed from week to week. The library's CD section was terribly deficient in the realm of classical music, but I watched with amusement as one by one, Tosca, Rigoletto, Hansel and Gretel, Madame Butterfly, and Don Giovanni were all checked out. Christine seemed to have liked opera quite a bit. I often found myself wondering what her specific operatic tastes were. Though the section was deficient, it represented quite a varied range of styles. Each one of them must have made some kind of impression on her. But again, I was only vaguely interested, in a mentor-like fashion.

It was not until she left one of her own books in the library that I even discovered what her name was. One Thursday evening (Thursday was her library day) I found The Victor Book of Operas sitting squarely on the weathered desk in my section of the library. It had no bar code or card pocket, and as I flipped to the dedication page, I noticed a girl's square, bold cursive.

"Property of Christine Day"

Well, if it was property of Christine Day, then it should be returned to her. The book was well worn, but evidently well cared for. An old volume, it was printed on expensive, glossy paper, which no publisher in his right mind would have used anymore. As I left the library that evening, I turned it into the librarian.

The woman brushed back a strand of dark amber hair and sighed. "Christine Day. She leaves things here constantly. Thank you for telling me, Mr. Troche. One day, that girl will forget something and it will be stolen from her, and serve her right!"

Somehow, I knew from her vague references that the girl in question must be the little, dreamy dancer who had waltzed into my music section in the weeks before.

Christine. I thought the name to myself as I left the building and got into my car. Christine. I thought it to myself in my own accent. In French, it sounded untrue, and false to her nature. I decided to keep with the American pronunciation.

I was at the library next Thursday, carefully gauging my arrival to hers, so that I might ensure that the librarian returned her book to her. The girl seemed quite relieved, assuring the disapproving woman that she had been looking for it since the previous Thursday, and thanking her for keeping it safe. After several brief harangues, largely superfluous, I thought, the woman let her off, having received a half serious promise to be more attentive in the future. I found the muscles in my jaw working oddly, as a smile of true enjoyment came to my lips. I had not smiled in a way that signified happiness for a long while. And even then, Christine Day was nothing more than a moment of brightness in the perpetual gloom that, I admit, I allowed to surround my existence.

I saw her dance, merely three weeks ago. Her feet, I had observed before, were too large to allow her to be a ballerina (a disappointment to me) but the fact that she did not attend one of the schools that taught only the wildly gyrating style of hip-hop was still an encouragement. The size of her feet had been something of great amusement for me, considering her otherwise petit stature, but it had just been another endearing quirk that pulled me inexorably closer to my terrible resolve.

The Smith School of Dance met in the several wide halls of the town hall. It taught Vaudeville style tap dancing, as well as the more classical style of jazz. It was woefully under funded though, and each class usurped a portion of the building. Upon passing through the foyer to find out what movie would be playing in the small, dark, subterranean theatre, a flash of dark curls caught my eye. Christine was standing off one side of a laughing group of girls and tying back her hair. The grace of her neck halted me in my steps for one moment, but the flood of shame that caught me at almost the same time hurried me along in my steps. I do not remember what the movie playing was, even though I must have stared at the sign and the summary for a good three minutes while I waited for her class to begin dancing, that I might make my escape with her attention distracted.

The music was soft, yet lilting, modern, yet strangely reminiscent of the classical style. I could not place it, even though I wanted to listen. There were overlays of violin chords and cello baseline, even as the vocalist practiced that modern style of bel canto which I usually abhorred. And still, something about the style of the music, mixing with the soft footfalls of dancers, was captivating. I felt drawn, no, enthralled, and I had to turn around.

There were several superb dancers in her group, and though I might have picked them out as technically superior to her, she shone above the others as the Great Star might have shone above Bethlehem. Her motions were graceful, her arms extended when the others clutched them self-consciously to their sides. She rose on her toes and swirled around the floor, giving rhythmical structure to the poorer dancers who watched her for their cues.

I realized I was staring. I might not have felt shame for that, but the feelings that accompanied my staring were such as to make even my cheeks burn with the remembered feeling of shame. I left before the dance was over, and thankfully noticed me outside the building as I leaned my head into my hands, panting slightly, as alien feelings and suppressed impulses rose and washed over me like suffocating waves. She could not be more than seventeen, I reminded myself. She was a child, nothing more.

When the agony of lust passed me, I felt anger such as threatened to overwhelm my senses. How could I? What kind of disgusting creature was I?

The car door slammed so violently that I was afraid I would break the window. But I was so riled up that I hardly noticed. My palms, bleeding from my fingernails, left blood smears along the wheel. I vowed never to return to the town hall or the library on Thursday afternoons. Christine Day would never know of me, or of my disgusting (and growing) obsession.

I was surprised at what effort it took to hold myself to my resolve. I told myself that I was nothing more than curious, that I would never possibly care for her in any way. I told myself the most ridiculous of lies. Once, I even remember thinking that I needed to be there in case she forgot something. When all of the lies were quenched, I avoided the library on Thursday entirely, to evade the ever-mounting wall of temptation.

I went, instead, on Friday morning. I refused to seem desperate, so I did not go until midmorning had passed. I walked slowly and deliberately up to the music section, punishing myself with every second I waited to reach the third floor, reminding myself that I had come to read, and nothing more. Yet hope stirred within me, hope that was at once pathetic and incredible. Would she have left something, something for me to ensure was returned to her? Something for me?

My heart leaped at the sight of the purple cover. Spiral-bound, the journal was well used, but also well cared for. I stood stock-still in the center of the room before I reached for it, reminding myself of how rude it was to pry into the personal belongings of another.

The blank page in front bore the same bold inscription. "Property of Christine Day" The girl had probably lost many books before she had taken to meticulously labeling anything of value to her. I fought a desperate, loosing battle with my conscience before I allowed my fingers to flip through the pages. Her neat, square cursive filled over half the book. I caught a word here or there, nothing at all to indicate what she was writing about, but already the shame, which I had not felt for years before, was making me feel so badly that I had to set the book down.

I knew why I was feeling this way. Duping or deceiving any of the people with whom I had had even a marginally friendly rapport was repugnant to me, even though I had managed anyway. Antoinette Giry, Nadir, and the little librarian here were the three people, from the various epics of my life, that I could think of who would fit this description. The former two I had managed to deceive even through my shame. The latter I had never had a reason to. And now, little Christine Day was superseding all of my carefully constructed defenses. The fact that she was doing this completely unconsciously was what both amazed and shamed me. Already, and for no reason, I did not want to hurt her or invade her privacy.

But she would never know. And the purple cover, lying so docilely against the dark wood of the desk, where I had laid it, was so tempting that in another moment it was open, and I dealt with the shame that followed. As I read from the pages, I could almost hear her voice speaking each line, so ardently and perfectly was her essence captured in every line.

_This is an epic of myself, of a girl who doesn't really understand where she belongs yet. I believe I am an author, a writer, a poet of prose, and that I am a dancer, someone who is not fully complete without motion of some kind, but what I wish to be has not yet been in any other person._

Surely, I told myself, now I must stop. This was far too personal for my prying eyes. These were her memoirs, of a sort, yet even more precious than those dusty old recollections from famous personages. These were more because they were both a reflection and a prediction.

But my traitorous mind whispered that I could learn everything about her from a book like this. She would be both brutally honest and thorough in her analysis. I would know her weaknesses, her strengths, and her dreams. I had held people ensnared, captive to my every whim, on less than the information in this book. I had to read more.

_What I believe I love more than anything else is music. And since I am beginning to attempt to explain who I am, I might as well begin with that._

There was the little quirk on the corner of her mouth! There was the little touch of sarcastic humor that I had noticed in her demeanor. She recognized herself and her silly little attempt, but she was brave, and she had to go through with it anyway.

_I cannot compose. I cannot even sing. But I love to write lyrics, and in private, I will belt out any melody than I can remember. It shames me, the damage that I do the music, but I know that the spirit is still inside me, even though I cannot, no matter what I do, cause it to manifest._

I could not breathe. Her sentiments echoed my own so well that for a moment, I saw her as a much younger reflection of myself, doggedly pounding away at a piano, trying desperately to find that tune that would open the floodgates to the music of my heart. I had found my skill in both composing and singing. She was waiting for the key.

The book lay open in my hand, but my mind was so confused that I could hardly focus on the words of the page. Before I knew it, the book was closed and hidden in one of my coat pockets. I was outside the building before I realized what course I had just set myself to.

I knew I should leave. Just pick up and move, before I could grow any more attached or any more desperate. I had more than enough money, and being constantly uprooted was not a feeling that troubled me. My resentment stopped me. My resentment, and my anger. I was older than she, true, but I deserved a chance of happiness, as much as the next man. Though the term 'man', I had always felt, should be loosely applied to me, the meaning was the same. I knew I was deceiving myself when I told myself that there was nothing wrong with my attraction to Christine. I had also gone beyond caring.


	2. Chapter Two

I couldn't believe my carelessness. How could I have left my journal there? Of all things, why my journal?

My sneakers slapped the pavement in an insatiable rhythm, but not one fast enough to match the frantic beating of my heart. What if someone found it, what if someone read it? My heart felt likely to stop, even as it raced more blood to my system. Oh, God, that I'd never written it! It was too silly to be looked on by anyone but me. I didn't want Mrs. Miller to find it.

Thursday afternoons were exclusively my time. After school I would walk about two miles to the little Dunkin' Donuts that rested in a hollow off of Main Street, and for an hour or so I would read or write in one of the booths, sipping hot chocolate or coffee. Then, when it approached 4 in the afternoon, I would walk to the library, browsing for something new to read and dropping off my finished books. I adored my town's library, as it was one of the few things that made life in this cramped little town bearable to me. My father and I had only moved here six years ago, and the first eleven years of my life, spent in New York City, made memories of nights at Broadway musicals, watching from backstage, or trips to Chinatown or Little Italy practically unbearable to think about. Life was so tiny here, and there was no other way to think of it.

This afternoon was nothing like the other ones I had spent. I'd left my journal in the library, and I didn't discover that fact until I'd wanted to continue my thoughts last night. A whole week had gone by, and what made me even more apprehensive was the fact that Mrs. Miller hadn't called me about it. She usually made it her exclusive business to inform me when I'd forgotten something yet again.

My dance bag thumped against my side, and I felt a cramp developing somewhere along my left calf. I gritted my teeth and pushed myself harder. It was my just punishment, I thought, for being so careless. Though carelessness and forgetfulness had been bred into me, my father enjoyed saying. He had once left his Stradivarius on the seat of a taxicab while on the way to rehearsal. We liked calling him 'YoYo Ma', just for kicks after that.

We. We being my mother and I. Now it was just me who said that, and I hadn't done so for over five years. The last time I did, I had made my father cry. It had been such a natural joke that it had just slipped out. What I forgot was that it had been natural for my mother too. I had cried that night over the fact that I had forgotten.

Finally, after two punishing miles uphill, Main Street leveled out into a broad, flat expanse. I darted across the street to where the sidewalk was flatter, where the cobblestones had just been replaced, and started the downhill slide to the library. I could see the old building, with its corny rooster weather vane, peering out from above the trees. Leaping over a root, I ran out into the library's parking lot…

…and was promptly almost hit by a car.

The black BMW screeched to a halt, and stupidly, I put my hands out and touched the hood. Though the car had been traveling very slowly, I still felt the punishing impact of metal on my palms. The pain was secondary to my humiliation. I must have given the poor driver a heart attack.

I knelt to gather my bag, knocked off my shoulder, and I heard the door of the car open and close. A man's strong arm helped me up, and took both of my hands, where bruises were already developing.

"I am so sorry, I just wasn't thinking," I babbled, trying to extract my hands out of the man's firm grip. I felt the soft feeling of his strangely calloused hands on my own and for the first time looked up at his face.

The smooth white leather of the mask curved over the upper portion of his face like a turtle's shell. His green eyes, flecked with bits of amber, looked down at me with a glance that I could not interpret. It seemed concerned, yet somehow trying to hide the extent of that concern. There were also flashes of something else, something that troubled me unconsciously. I pulled my hands out of his, probably a little bit more swiftly than I had intended to.

"Thank you." It seemed odd, those words. I should have been begging his forgiveness, but something about his eyes just made me want to stand in his gaze and be silent. The mask tipped me off right away. He was the kind man who had let me take his book from him. I'd be thankful to him forever after that—it had been a great help in my study of opera.

His hands dropped back down to his sides, with only the slightest hesitation. A smile tried to form on his lips, but unsuccessfully.

"You have nothing to apologize about. It is I who should be sorry,"

Again, that slight hint of French and something else hovered around his words. If I closed my eyes and listened to him speak, I could almost picture the fairy-land that he must have come from. I could almost smell Persian spices.

The pause between the first part of his sentence and the last was a trifle too long.

"For almost running you over, that is."

I shook my head, unable to take my eyes away from his. My smile was a little more realistic. "I was careless. I left something here a week ago, and it means a lot to me. I was in too much of a hurry to find it," I held up my palms, "and this is my reward. Haste makes waste." I quipped, the odd words somehow finding their ways to my lips. I realized too late how strange they sounded, and tried to pass them off with a giggle.

He stepped back, almost as if to retreat to his car, when he stopped suddenly and looked directly into my eyes. Ordinarily, I disliked making eye contact with total strangers, but there was something about him that I implicitly trusted, even if there was something unsettling in his manner. The hash of emotions I got around him wreaked havoc on my impressions and what exactly I was supposed to do.

He smiled. "Do you like opera?"

I was shocked. "How did you know I was studying it?"

He counted off on his fingers, drawing my attention to those pale digits, which seemed so elegant that I was almost entirely entranced by their smoothness of motion, if nothing else. "First, you had a recording of Tosca. Second, you checked out a mammoth volume of opera libretti. Then, you proceed to check out each and every copy of opera recording that this library has."

I was slightly unnerved. "You look at the library records?"

He shook his head almost imperceptibly, almost as if mocking me for my suspicion. His lips curled, and my attention was captivated by that other, exquisitely elegant portion of him. "I am an opera cognoscente, you might say. But Americans, in general, are not. I am attentive to anyone who is. In fact," he continued, almost seeming to weigh his decision before he acted, "I have something that might interest you."

The book which he drew from his jacket pocket was old, I saw right away. It was heavily bound, solid, a testament to the ages. When he placed it in my hands, I felt the weight and felt that familiar thrill that went through me whenever I touched something that I felt had a mystery. Old books, old costumes, and old instruments.

Under his eyes, I opened the book. The title page, with ink so old that the effect was almost one of embossing, read The Age of Opera and the Beauties of the Stage. I smiled, flipping the pages reverently, examining the wonderful line sketches and diagrams that seemed to outline every aspect of an operatic life. I shook my head, jealousy and longing rising up in me, and handed it back to him.

"It's beautiful." I said helplessly, my eyes flicking inexorably up to his.

Green points of light bored into me. "I meant for you to keep it."

My head shook out of the instinct of politeness. One did not accept expensive presents from either close friends or total strangers. "I couldn't." My protest was heartfelt, though that same heart screamed at me to keep it. "It's a magnificent book. I'm sure you would miss it."

"It has been well loved." He admitted, but his eyes did not waver in their intensity. "But I feel that you would love it just as well. Besides, a hundred twenty-five years ago, that was the definitive text for an opera lover. And little changes, even over a century."

His face was gently abstracted as he mused silently on this subject, and I felt a strange beckoning from his soul to mine. The volume hung heavily in my hand. For the first time since he had gotten out of the car, I felt the oddity of our situation there. His car, pulled haphazardly in the way and the two of us standing there having a discussion of literature! There was no one else in the lot, no witnesses to this, but I felt the pull of the world, and something, an impulse, rose up in me.

I smiled vaguely and made a tiny noise in my throat.

"Thank you." I brought the book up to my chest, and he stared down at me again. He must have been several inches over six feet. "I'll treasure it."

"That's all I ask of you." He said.

We parted with strange, sad smiles, and I watched his car round the corner and speed out onto Main Street. My head spun slowly, and I sat down for a moment on the curb. My legs and head hurt, and my palms, which I had insisted were fine, now started to twinge with pain.

I placed the book carefully in my bag, and leaned my head into my hands. After a few moments, I got up and searched the library for my journal. I never found it.

I had never before been so happy to leave dance class. My run in the early afternoon followed by an hour and a half session at the bar left my legs feeling as if they had been filled with napalm jelly. Each muscle was weak and burning. I collapsed on the splintering wooden benches before the town hall to wait for a few minutes before I walked home. I had not performed well that day. The pain in my legs, the agony in my mind about my lost journal (even Mrs. Miller hadn't seen it) and the confusion about my run-in with my benefactor that day made it impossible for me to concentrate.

Though I should have been furious with myself over the lost journal, I found myself thinking about that man. The strange feeling of kinship that I had felt with him at the time rankled the back of my mind, and I found myself examining what I knew of the man to give me that impression.

My first estimation of him was nothing short of flattering. He was intelligent, elegant, and kind, if there was a hint of sarcasm that hung rather heavy about his mouth. But since I had my own supply of sarcasm, I wasn't deprecating of its worth. An air of solemn loneliness swirled around him as he walked, an air that probably discouraged most people from speaking with him. It was plain that he did not belong in this town.

His age I had guessed to be mid to late thirties. This was substantial enough to make me blush at the thoughts I considered when I looked at his hands, his lips or his fine, tall physique. I was seventeen, a high school senior. I'd not even lived. He, he seemed…ageless. There was a sobriety around his eyes, a sadness, that breathed lifetimes lived, ages spent in a sad, tragic world.

The mask. The mask must be the root of it all. When I had first seen him in the darkness of the music section, ensconced in his armchair like an emperor on the throne, I had automatically assumed that he had been a burn victim. I had shared an elementary school class with a kid who had lost his mother and one side of his face to his burning house, and I had pitied the kid for the constant teasing he got from the kids. He had clung to his mask with the fervor of a drowning person. In a way, he had been drowning.

Of course, that judgment on my part was probably naïve. I hoisted myself off the bench, feeling my legs wobble, and started the long walk home. Even though the days were lengthening as spring advanced, I did not want to walk home in the dark. Besides, if I arrived home after my father, he would worry himself sick (sicker) by the time I got home. I also thought better while I was moving.

He could have had a disfiguring birth defect. Such things, unfortunately, did happen, and though in America he might have been held aloft and been the subject for many charity drives, maybe they did things differently in Europe. Perhaps he had been too proud to beg, preferring to don a mask for all time rather than ask for the pity of others. That was admirable. Having pride of my own, I knew what it was to have to live off the charity and humiliating pity of others.

There was, of course, no way to tell, and with characteristic American feeling, I let him wear what he wished to wear and for whatever reason. I was curious, certainly, but there was no reason for me to pry. Even thinking of horrible explanations seemed to me to smack of vulgarity.

I felt the heavy weight of the book against my thigh and smiled, washed over by a wave of gratefulness. Whatever had prompted him to give me such a gift? We had no acquaintance, other than a rather embarrassing—to me—exchange in a public library. Oh, and I had almost been hit by his car. There was that. But if I had almost hit a stupid teenager, I would rather have rolled him over than given him such a precious book. I only had to be grateful that he had decided on the latter than otherwise.

I had covered a good mile before I stopped. The breeze of the evening was so soothing that I rested against a tree trunk by the side of the road and lifted my heavy mane of hair off my neck, letting the wind cool the sweat and calm me down. The evening's first stars were coming out, and I stared at them winking at me through the thick branches of the pine against which I leaned. Cars passing on that road were few and far between, and for the most part I was alone. I valued that feeling, even as I feared it. Living in New York had given me the sense of never being alone, which was sometimes good and oftentimes bad. I shivered and started walking again, faster this time. I had the feeling that someone was following me.

My home was small, tucked away in a small corner of this tiny town, and until one was right on top of it, it was hard to know that it was even there. The driveway was not paved, which made driving along it something between off-roading and mountain climbing. I remember what my mother had said when she first saw it. In the pain of her throat cancer, she had murmured to me that it was like the cottage that had sheltered Snow White from the Evil Queen. And as I look at it with new eyes, I can see what she meant. Trees stand like sentinels, reinforced with mammoth boulders, and overshadowing all, the stars are an advanced guard.

My father's car was parked in the driveway, and I checked my watch, fearful of what I would find. But unfortunately, he was early again. I sighed. The time was coming when I would not have him either. I feared that with the fear of an adult, and also with the hysteria of a child. I did not want to be alone. I wanted there to be someone I could come back to. But I was being selfish. Of course he loved her too and wanted to be with her. I was strong. I could and would take care of myself if he asked me to. Either way, I had no choice.

I felt the unwillingness strongly this time. Don't ask me to go in, I begged, though whom I did not know. Don't make me look at his eyes, the eyes that have no hope. I want to have hope, I want to live!

My feet dragged me on. He might need help with dinner, and I was late as it was.

I peered around the corner of the door, so that I would know what kind of mood he was in. Unlike his bad days, right now he was puttering happily about the kitchen, murmuring under his breath, as he stirred the pot of pasta and sautéed onions and tomatoes together with olive oil in the frying pan. I smiled, smelling the familiar aroma.

My father, Charles Day, was originally from one of the Scandinavian nations. Though since he had been moved away from his original home when he was very young, he was never quite sure which country he had come from. His parents had died young, and he went to live with a relation in Paris. This relative, a kind aunt, had spotted his talent for music early, and had taken him on so many pilgrimages to La Scala and the other stages of Italy that when he had finally become a fully-fledged musician, he had made his home equally in both nations. His accent, a charming amalgamation between the two languages, often confuses those whom he meets. We often have a good time laughing at their puzzled expressions.

He looked over his shoulder at me, as I hung around the corner of the door, and shook his wooden spoon at me. Tomato sauce dripped onto the floor, and we both laughed.

"Christine," he cried, mopping at the spill with his foot, "come inside. You'll catch a chill. My goodness, you must have worked hard!"

I knew that my hair was standing on edge like wires, and I could still feel my flushed face. Embarrassed, I shifted my bag off my shoulder and ran my hand through my hair. "We needed the work," I said, by way of explanation, and collapsed into one of the kitchen stools.

He clucked, pouring me a glass of milk, and, placing it in front of me, threatened me with the wooden spoon again. "Prima ballerinas are perfection itself."

"I'm not a ballerina," I said, smarting slightly under his rebuke. "I'm better. I'm an American ballerina."

"You use the term lightly. 'Ballerina' is a word for those who are classically trained." He sighed, stirring the sauce onto the drained spaghetti. "You are a modern dancer, though thankfully not as modern as some of these young ladies I see on this MTV."

"Papa," I cried, laughing, "you don't watch MTV."

"Well," he smiled, "I hear of it." His laughter was heavier, grittier than mine. My heart clenched, and my hands trembled as they held the glass.

His hands were uneven as they carried the plates over to the table, and I grasped mine quickly before it spilled everywhere. We had spent the beginnings of too many meals just cleaning up messes. And tonight, though he was in good spirits, it was obvious that he was tired. I cursed myself for having been late getting home. I might have started dinner.

I sighed, and twirled some pasta around my fork. It was al dente perfection, nothing less than my father, in any state of health, would have permitted to reach the table. Some things would never change. I chewed and swallowed. Not until the very end.

"So how was your day?"

"Rehearsal was long and difficult today." He chewed thoughtfully and gestured to his leather violin case on the end of the counter. "Those fools sometimes have no respect for what they play. The history of the violin is something great, but they treat it as if it had been invented yesterday."

I nodded, sympathetic. "But you did well?"

He looked at me sharply. "As always, Christine. Is there a reason why I should not be as I always am?"

"Papa," I stared down at my plate, "you didn't take your pills with you this morning."

Ominous silence.

"You haven't been taking them for two weeks. I know there are more pills in the bottle than there should be. Are you feeling that much better?" There was both reproach and hope in my voice.

"Medicine can do no more for me than it already has, Christine." His voice was quiet, but without the sadness that so often haunted mine. "Weak hearts are bred into my family. I am only glad that I did not pass it to you. Your mother…" He stopped, hand pressed to his heart. My eyes clouded over, and I had to open my mouth to breathe. His voice was no more than a whisper when it resumed. "Your mother saw to that."

"Papa," I whispered, two tears rolling from my eyes, "I don't want you to go."

"Christine," his hand covered mine, "sometimes, what will be, will be, despite all we may wish to the contrary."

I put my fork down. My tears had mixed with the sweet sauce and had left the pasta bitter. Besides, my throat was so swollen with unshed tears that another bite would choke me.

Do you really wish to stay, Papa? If you wished, maybe you'd take your medicine!

That was what I longed to say. But because I already knew the unspoken answer, I would not hurt both him and myself by speaking it aloud. He was right. What would be, would be. The only thing that mattered was the time that he decided to spend with me now. I would not ruin it.

I stabbed a plump tomato through with my fork and popped it into my mouth. I had eaten this recipe so often that one might have assumed that I'd be able to make it by now. But I could never imitate my father's perfect blend of spices. I savored the taste, knowing that I might never eat it again.

Even though we did not speak through the rest of the dinner, I think he understood what I wanted from him. At the end of the meal, as I brought the dishes over to the sink to be washed, I saw him take his pill.

_Please, Papa, please…just a little bit longer. I'm not strong enough yet. Wait for me, Papa._


	3. Chapter Three

I made sure that she was home safely. Whatever impulse that had prompted me to follow her in the first place was now placated, and I was allowed to continue on to my own home. God was in the way again, for my home, which I had bought to be purposely on the furthest edge of this wilderness town, was only three miles down from her own. The knowledge that she was that close to me both excited and repulsed me. The emotions that I felt around her were too violent for me to even make a pretense for her safety. Most times, I could hold myself under control. But the things that I did when released made me both tremble with fear and anticipation. My grip on the wheel was painfully tense before I reached my home. While the crime of rape had yet been out of my reach, I knew that it was not beyond me. Nothing was beyond Erik. Humanity had set no boundaries that could come close to encompassing him, and as far as I was concerned, humanity's laws had no hold on me.

My home probably had once been the center of town. It was a fine old Victorian mansion, probably constructed by some up and coming family in the early 1900s. The house was still in excellent repair, and had the distinction of being the oldest building around. Tours were, unfortunately, a regular part of weekend life, but I made sure that I was out of the house when any group came around. The house also had the dubious honor of being the obligatory 'haunted' house in the neighborhood. Well, if there are ghosts cohabitating with me, I have long since made myself known and affable to them. The spirits of the dead are nothing to frighten me. I have been familiar with them for the whole of my existence.

But for all the formidable beauty of the home, it was still too large for my limited needs, and in the times of my loneliness, it was painfully empty. Knowing now that the object of my obsession was only three miles away from me, and that the both of us were practically isolated in this relative wilderness, would make that loneliness even more difficult to bear. Still, I had to be patient. The seedling of a terrible plan was hatching in my head, and I was doing my best to nurture it, but I still needed more time to understand my unwitting prey. Kidnapping I had committed before, albeit not for any personal gain except my substantial fee, but this time I stood to gain—and lose—much more. I had to be cautious; a girl was always a touchy target, and I had only been responsible for the kidnapping. The imprisonment would be so much more difficult.

I moved silently into the darkness of my home, hanging my coat meticulously in the hallway and continuing through to the library, an overshadowed, pitch dark room. Though no one could see me from the road, I was still careful. Years of looking over my shoulder and playing games of intrigue with nations made habits that were too difficult to repress. I even found myself smelling for any changes when I came into my now familiar environment. The Turkish and Iranian governments hated me even as they feared me. I knew myself to be untraceable. But I had nearly been killed twice. As much as I loathed life, I still refused to give it up. I still amaze myself with that perversity.

The electric light bathed the room in a harsh, sudden glow. I turned down the lamp, swept the room once with my eyes, and then relaxed into one of the comfortable armchairs that bordered the floor to ceiling bookshelves. I closed my eyes for one moment, unconsciously reprimanding myself for that moment of carelessness, and removed my mask. My fingers were skilled at eluding my remnants of face, and I massaged the normal skin that framed my eyes. I felt, suddenly, an icy tiredness permeate my very being, but I fought it away. I had more important things to do than see to the state of my body. I opened my eyes, having replaced my mask, and stared across the room to the little altar that had sprung up around the center of my universe.

The little purple journal reclined in all state, resting majestically on a little end table's runner of red brocade. Beside it I had added several newspaper clippings in which Miss Day's face was prominent, and I worshipped at this altar each and every time I was home, which was, I felt, too much time altogether. My knowledge of this girl had grown by leaps and bounds each time I dipped into her thoughts, but I was addicted. Normally, in planning a kidnapping, I would first learn the person's daily habits and timetable, as well as those who were familiar with them, that I could plan a smooth operation. Now, I was too far into her to put the book down when I felt I knew enough. Christine spoke to me from every page, every line, and even though I knew she was only addressing herself, I felt as though it was I she was speaking to.

Reading through her journal, it amazed me how much the two of us were alike. Christine, a logically ordered mind, even as she had flights of fancy into worlds more incredible than even I could have dreamed, arranged her testament in sections that made decoding each portion of her mind into a child's game. I sensed that there were things that still lingered unsaid—perhaps things that she was not even aware of yet—but these were the intangibles that would be made clear on a personal acquaintance.

What I had felt for Christine before I discovered her journal (curiosity and admiration) were nothing compared to the wild storm of enthusiasm that rocked me every time I even thought about her now. She loved reading. She loved writing. She loved to dance and sing and think and dream. She often quoted from either Shakespeare or, even better, her favorite poet Yeats. And the crowning achievement, the thing that attached me to her far more than her grace or her intellect, was her ambition.

She wanted to tour Europe. She wanted to construct the lands that provided the backdrops for her dreams, and animate the characters that brought her so much personal joy. And she wanted to do all this by combining all her loves, and writing operas. I had never met a girl like her.

In the last few sections of her book, before she had stopped writing, she had only then begun to study opera. She had originally planned on designing musical theatre, but something vague, that she never really addressed directly, stopped her from doing that. She decided on opera, she said, because it would stand through the ages, perhaps even longer than musicals would, and because hopefully more educated people would view operas, and understand what she was trying to communicate. I was beyond glad that she had made this choice. I had come to the same conclusion, albeit not going through the road of musical theatre, but with much the same thought processes. My dreams had not come to fruition. But the night that I read of her ambition I swore to any and all gods that were out there that hers would!

Christine Day was the answer to all my fervid hopes and dreams. I no longer cared, or even considered, her age or her family. She would be mine, and in time, she would understand why. Woe to those, I had decided, who would come in my way. I would brook no opposition, even hers. Not that I was a fool. I understood what risks I ran, what a terrible thing, according to this world, that I was going to attempt. But I did not care. In the dark, in the night, she was speaking to me. She was calling to someone to understand her. And I did. She did not know me, but I understood her.

What was even more unbelievable was the fact that she needed me. A lover of music she might be, but she had said in her own words that she was no composer, and certainly no singer. While I was not certain about that last, I understood her fear of composition. I however, had none of that timidity around music. What music we could make together, the two of us! We could bring operas to the world such as had never before been dreamed by anyone before. Our dreams could live together, and we could help each other make them real.

I did not read from her book tonight. I allowed my hand to caress the cover, softly, lovingly, but I did not read. I had the image of her home to feast upon. I knew where my angel lived. That would be enough to sustain me through the night. I turned off the light in my library and found my way upstairs in the dark.

The next morning (noon, rather. I am a late sleeper) found me more than ready to investigate my target. Professional terminology demanded that I refer to her as a target, even though by now I was thinking of her in a much different light. I had started to understand her motivations, her desires and her loves, but the journal was dry of other personal reflections. She had never said whether or not she had had any boyfriends. Her family was also a taboo subject. She referred to her father several times, but only in passing. "My father always said," and "my father taught me," but nothing more than that.

I also sensed some tension in her mind as she wrote, and I believed that it stemmed from this obvious omission. This book was a testament to her life so far. Her family should have been a major subject. The fact that she chose to leave it unspoken was what also drew my attention to the fact that she did not mention her mother even once. My cynical mind told me that there was either some serious, embarrassing problem with her mother—such as insanity or alcoholism—or that she was dead.

This latter seemed to be the most likely. This would explain why her mother was never mentioned at all; with an alcoholic mother, or an insane one, she would have mentioned it with either bitterness or resignation.

Of her father, I knew a little. Charles Day was a slightly famous violinist, having performed in several orchestras in both Europe and America. He might have been more popular had he been free to join the larger, more demanding ensembles, but obviously a family would prevent him from doing so. The only reason I even knew of him was that once, he was a featured soloist in a concert that I attended. I had been impressed, but not overly so. I did not look to see him in other ensembles and I did not watch for his concerts, and after he moved to America (after his marriage, I now recalled) he dropped out of the classical performance scene for good.

I wondered about her mother. She must have been another music lover, perhaps even a singer, since Christine seemed to hold a high respect for singers, and a great regret that she was not one herself. But I had never heard of a singer named Day before.

I had been pacing the library as I thought of these things, and now I turned to her book and flipped through the pages, hoping that a word somewhere would come to me and show me what her mother was, and therefore show me in greater depth who she was. But I had read the entire thing by now, and I knew what was there and what was not. I needed another source of information.

She said that she kept journals. Surely her reflections on more personal subjects would be contained in those. Obviously I could not steal them from her, as she probably never took them out, but since I knew where she lived now, it might be a simple matter for me to let myself into her home for further investigation. Her father, presumably, worked all day, and since it was Friday, I knew she would be at school. She would not be home until three in the afternoon, most likely, since she walked to school, and it was not yet noon.

I did not drive to her home. It might have looked too suspicious to any neighbors, however far, to see a car where there should be none. Three miles passed easily enough, and, as I had suspected, there were no cars in the driveway as I arrived. The little house was completely overshadowed by trees, allowing me the freedom to pick the lock of the front door.

I wonder how uneasy it would make people to discover how little locks can do to keep out an even marginally skilled burglar. As it was, I intended to steal nothing, but still…I could easily, if I wished.

The house was neatly ordered and scrupulously clean. A living room stretched out to my left as I entered, while the kitchen was on my right. A little hallway led, probably, to a bathroom and laundry room off the kitchen. Straight ahead of me was a staircase.

Two bedrooms and a bathroom were to be found on the second floor, and the floorboards were warped, though covered with brightly knotted rugs. It was nearly impossible to move without noise, as the poor old floor complained bitterly each time it had to bear the weight of another human foot. I took careful note of that fact. But if I walked towards the edges of the hall, the ungodly screeches subsided into petulant whispers.

Her bedroom was on the left, the bathroom was in the center, and the master bedroom was on the right. I peered into her tiny room.

The rug on the ground was a faded blue and white mosaic of a sun, moon and stars. The paint on her walls was a fresh, clean, sky blue. Her bed was pushed into a corner, hastily made, but the rest of the room was clean as well. It was obvious, though, that the family was not well off. She held a part-time job at the local supermarket, I saw. Her uniform was thrown over the back of her chair. Her furniture was antiquated and heavy, European in design and included a four poster bed that looked entirely out of place in the tiny chamber, a solid, heavy desk and chair, and an enormous dresser with a three paned mirror on top.

Books. Books were everywhere. Several makeshift shelves had been hammered into the walls, unpainted, unstained pieces of spare board, and these groaned under the combined weight of hundreds of books. Books on music, books on dance, fantasy, history, literature…it was all covered. This was a very well-educated, motivated girl. Most of the books were falling to pieces after too much use, but she held them together with contact paper and packing tape. Each book was labeled, and I began to notice her shelving system after examining the shelves after a while.

There were several books that gained special status. These were stacked on one corner of her desk, next to her laptop computer. _That_ was significantly out of place, but I was certain that there was some reasonable explanation. She probably bought it out of the money she made with her job. It was reasonable.

The books that apparently she needed to keep with her included a dictionary, a French-English dictionary, a thesaurus, a book on the history of dance, a volume that described theatre production, and my newly added book on opera. I noticed that she was still in the process of reading it, for a little slip of paper was stuck between the pages.

Possessed with a curiosity by now that was entirely insatiable, I opened her computer and turned it on. While the machine warmed up, I opened and examined the drawers of her dresser. The top three held her clothes, but the last one had folders and notebooks of various styles and colors. This was it. All of the information that I could ever need to find out exactly how Christine Day worked.

The computer chimed softly, letting me know that it was ready to work, and I examined the documents that she deemed necessary to save.

The file that looked most promising was the one entitled 'Operas'. I clicked on that and feasted on the titles that spilled out to me.

_The Wicked Life_

_La Joie de la Vie_

_The One Unforgivable Crime_

Each one of these was marked with either a 'C' or a 'I'. I took those to mean 'complete' or 'incomplete'. Only the first was marked 'C'. Besides these, there was also a document entitled 'Production Notes'.

A quick check of my watch told me that I had several hours to spare. I could probably read one of these operas and still have the time to make it out safely. But I was, for the most part, disinclined to take risks. Trespassing was not well looked upon here, and I did not want to be forced to move yet again. I had to be cautious this time.

As much as I wanted to read her work, more important now was for me to look through her journals and discover the information I needed. I turned off the computer, making sure to wipe the machine down first, and turned to her dresser.

She dated each entry the same way, and the earliest journal seemed to have been written when she must have been only ten years old. The handwriting was a childish attempt at her later bold cursive, but the style was the same; large and square.

Skimming each entry quickly, I found that her mother was still alive at this point. She was very lovingly referred to in many entries, and I quickly discovered that the lady was a singer. A Broadway musician, as a matter of fact. The only thing that I stopped to really consider was the entry dated August 3rd, 1998.

_I'm 11 today. At last. Mom gave me the book on dance that I've wanted for months. She also said that she would be my personal music teacher, now that her run in 'Cats' has ended. She says that she wants to spend more time with me. I'm glad that Mommy is going to be home. When she's on the stage, she doesn't come home until late. I never see her anymore. Daddy gave me the video I wanted too. And they've promised that I can keep taking dance lessons! But mom says that we might have to move sometime soon. They don't like New York anymore. I don't know why, it's so great for me. I hope we move somewhere where there's a stage. Mommy will still want to perform I know._

I filed the date of her birthday in my mind and wondered if there wasn't something else that might have contributed to her parents' decision to leave the city. A successful Broadway star and musician would probably be loathe to quit her career, especially when she was involved in one of the most popular musicals of all time. I found the next journal, that continued in January of 1999, and started to skim again. Very soon it became apparent to me that there was something wrong with Christine's mother. Each entry displayed the worried thoughts of a girl who knew what death was, but who was still confused as to how it could happen in her family.

There was one entry where she finally confronts her fears and her confusion. February 4th of 1999.

_We've moved! Of course, this place is a lot different from where we used to live. New York is a lot bigger, even though there are less trees. I hope people will be nice to me here. Mom is sick. Dad says that there's something wrong with her throat. They say it'll be fine, but Mommy's spending an awful lot of time in the hospital. I don't think…_

Here she trailed off. She seemed almost incapable of continuing her thought. The entry broke off without another word. I knew what she was thinking. She did not think that her mother would survive whatever was wrong with her. What a fate, I thought, for a Broadway singer to loose her instrument!

Suddenly, I heard a car crunch up the gravel driveway. Looking up in shock, I dashed to the window. A gray-haired man, toting a worn out violin case, was staggering unsteadily up to the door. Cursing under my breath, I replaced her journals in her drawer and quickly assessed my escape routes. I was furious that I had not thought of this problem before—I had never been this careless, ever!

The front door beneath me squeaked open. Heavy footfalls echoed up the hallway, and I realized that there was no way I could escape being seen. Thankfully, I reflected, this was an old house. There were no screens on the windows, and they were wide enough for me to fit through. A drop of thirty feet to the ground was not appealing, but the alternative was far worse. I could not be caught.

Unfortunately, I couldn't close the window after me, but I was safely concealed in the woods before I saw old Day's grizzled head peering anxiously through the open window. He shook his head and closed it, turning away. I let out an unconscious breath. That had been close.


	4. Chapter Four

Beep…beep…beep…beep _BEEP _beep.

The fat lady who was standing in front of me gazed avidly at the screen that displayed her order, waiting eagerly for the moment when she would be able to point triumphantly and shout that I'd made my first mistake. Twenty cents here, thirty there…I was reminded of a phrase that had been hammered into me in elementary school by one of the more sympathetic nuns.

_Most penance is just a martyrdom of pinpricks._

Thinking of that old fashioned, parochial Catholic school just gave me painful memories of the good days when we'd lived in the city. I shut down on that train of thought, and concentrated on the monotonous beeping of the register. I felt my own heartbeat sluggishly ringing in time with that hypnotic, mind-numbing noise, and my eyes fluttered closed as I sighed. My hands, though, well-attuned to the motion now, continued to work.

"Hang on there miss…that was advertised on the shelf as being $1.79."

My thoughts were disjointed, and I opened my eyes, turning towards the screen to see where the glowing green numbers had spelled out a damning $1.99 next to a box of pasta. I did not want to bother looking for the right price. So I did what I normally do in these situations. Put on the 'customer service' face, and settle.

"I'm very sorry ma'am. I'll take the extra twenty cents off for you, if you'd like."

She gazed at me with the eyes of a shrew. "Connecticut state law says that if an item rings up at the wrong price, I get the item free."

Damn. I hate it when they know the rules. I turned off the conveyer belt, trying hard not to sigh my disgust, and opened the store's weekly flyer. Barilla pasta was $1.99 a box, while the generic brand beneath it was $1.79. I turned the ad around and showed her the mistake.

"You got the wrong brand, ma'am. You got Barilla, and it's the store brand that's on sale this week. Do you still want it?"

She looked at me as if I had tried to wrest the precious pasta from her hand. "Of course I want the damn pasta! I have to eat, don't I?"

I made no response and went on ringing her order. I heard her mutter something about 'false advertising' and 'misleading labels' under her breath, but I just sighed again and finished, glad to have the woman off of my hands.

Tuesday evenings, for some reason or another, are the evenings when the elderly come out to the store in droves. Rather wickedly, I refer to it as the Geriatric Crowd. There is no single group of people more irritating to deal with at a store than the elderly. If you don't believe me, work in a store for a while and deal with their endless barrages of hassling. In a way, it's understandable. They come from a time when prices, even for little things, might have been negotiable. They don't understand the computer or monitoring systems. And a good deal of them have paranoid anxiety disorders. Not good combinations, let me tell you right now.

But at eight-thirty in the evening, it was time for most of them to hurry on home. Many of the cashiers were dismissed as well, as the crowd in the store shrank dramatically. I was on till nine-thirty, unfortunately, and now I had an hour in which I could do several of the many interesting store activities.

1) A slogan of the managers is 'if there's nothing else to do, clean'. Each one of the registers had to be shining by the time you were finished, and if that meant staying late, without pay, that was exactly what one had to do. Of course, the danger with this operation was that each and every time you got the bottle of bleach solution out to whitewash the sides of your register, a customer would come up. And that meant getting up, putting the bleach away, and getting all your hard work dirty again.

2) Returning things is the most popular activity, but not one that was granted to cashiers very often. This meant taking all the things that had been stowed under your register by customers who didn't want them, putting all of them in a cart, and dropping them back onto the shelves. This was a good thing, because no one could say how long it would take you to walk all over the store, but it was bad because the managers were loathe to give a cashier that much personal freedom.

3) There are always pens to be played with.

4) On a slow—very slow—night, you can have bleach solution fights with your friends. Of course, that all depended on whether or not you liked going home smelling of chlorine. Besides, it was seriously frowned upon by the management. Also, I was never close enough with any of the people here—besides my best friend Meg—and it was bad manners to squirt anybody with bleach solution without a personal acquaintance.

5) Thumbs may always be twiddled.

Each of these scintillating activities spoke to me, but I, seeing as there were no managers patrolling the front end at the moment, chose instead to pull my book from my back pocket (cleverly concealed under my uniform) and read.

Of course, the moment I got to the good part of the chapter, I heard footsteps on the end of my register. I closed my book and slipped it into the draw at my register, in time to look up into one of the most attractive faces I have ever had the good blessing to see. I don't usually notice men, especially at the supermarket, but I had to catch my breath quickly for this one to avoid either letting my jaw drop or starting to drool.

"Excuse me, miss, but are you open?"

French accent. I seemed to be bumping into a lot of Europeans recently. I smiled (a real smile this time) and nodded.

"Yes, sir."

He pulled two fully loaded shopping carts into my register. I still couldn't help smiling. I'd have him for a good fifteen minutes then. I had no bagger, and it would take an awful long time to put his order in bags. When he'd unloaded the first of the carts, he looked back over at me and smiled.

"I just moved here. Can you see that? I have to buy everything new again."

I smiled back, ringing his order with restrained enthusiasm. "Where did you move from?"

"Toulouse." He said. Then he quickly caught himself, reminded that I might not know what country Toulouse was in. "I am French, _mademoiselle_."

"Yes," I was well aware where Toulouse was, "my father took me there eight years ago. I think that I liked it even better than I liked Paris. All the cities were bathed in rose-colored light. It reminded me of Italy, except there, everything is gilded."

He looked briefly nostalgic. "I am not certain that I would say Paris is less beautiful than Toulouse, but since I was born there, I am a poor judge. My family is an old aristocratic one, so I have many memories and much history there."

I scanned another item thoughtfully and slipped it into plastic. As I put it down, the heavy pot clanged against my register. "Did you move here for your business?"

He faced me again as he replied. He was very scrupulously polite that way, refusing to keep his back to me when he spoke. "I suppose you could say that. I am a teacher, and my university in Paris wanted me to have experience abroad before they gave me my secondary degree in English education. I suppose you would call it an internship."

"So you'll be teaching near here then?" Unconsciously, I was telling myself not to get my hopes up, that it would be insane if he came to teach at my high school. But, at the same time…he was shopping at this store!

"The school I will teach at will be…euh…this name is always difficult to pronounce, Pawtucket High School."

My heart stopped. But I pulled a very nonchalant face and asked another, very discreet question. "What classes?"

His face puckered up in an absolutely adorable way when he was thinking. "I believe the honors French classes in the third year, one of the advanced placement courses for English literature, and the advanced placement fifth year French class."

Yes, yes, yes, yes, _yes_!

Again, I was entirely nonchalant. Nothing like letting one of your teachers know that you think he's incredibly good looking. "I'm in that class. What a great way to have power over your teacher," I continued, jokingly, "I control your food supply!"

He laughed, revealing one of the most lyrical sounds I had ever heard. "Well, I hope that you do not make a butchery of my language; if that is the case, I shall have to find another place to shop."

I smirked. "That's the beauty of it. There are no other supermarkets for miles. I control you!" I laughed, rather wickedly. He took it in the spirit it was intended, and smiled again. It was amazing how his smile just seemed to bring illumination to his whole face. I looked forward to the good times that I was going to have in class from now on; no more doughty Madame Lynsbeck. From now on, I was going to be looking at a French demigod. Tall, blond-haired, blue eyed demigod. Meg would be furious that she'd wasted her time with Spanish for the past four years. I'd always told her that French was a more attractive language.

Unfortunately, I'd run out of items to scan. And bag. It was time to say 'farewell'.

"Can I have the privilege of knowing the name of my new teacher?" I could not believe that I was bold enough to ask.

"Certainly, _mademoiselle_." He swept down into a very dashing bow. "My name is Raoul de Chagny."

He took my hand and kissed it, teasingly. His dark eyes flicked up to mine, and I was completely taken in. I knew, or rather, was conscious, of the very silly grin on my face, but I was also aware that it would be impossible for me to look any other way. I've always had a weakness for beauty, and this Raoul had it in abundance. Mental note: he is not Raoul. Mr. Chagny. Mr. Chagny.

"I would also appreciate the knowledge of your name, _mademoiselle._"

"Oh!" I was thrown off balance. "It's Christine."

He smiled again. "It is a lovely name."

I could think of no proper response, so I decided to go with security. "I look forward to seeing you tomorrow then."

"Until tomorrow, _mademoiselle_. _Au revoir._"

I smiled. "_Au revoir._"

"Oh, Meg, he's the most attractive man I've ever seen!" I gushed, walking with her the next morning to school. "I mean, he looks like…like…I don't even have any words for it!"

"He really must be something if he's got you all hot and bothered like this!" Meg exclaimed, tossing back her short honey-blond ponytail and giving me a wicked look. "I've never heard you go on and on about someone like this before. So…am I gonna get specifics, or do I just get to hear you ramble?"

"Mmm…" I hummed, deciding what to tell her first. "Blond hair, rather long. He wears it pulled back in a ponytail."

Meg grunted. I could tell she was intrigued, but putting on the show of being unimpressed.

"The prettiest blue eyes I've ever seen…in anyone! They look like sapphires, I swear to God, Meg!"

"I thought your type was tall, dark and handsome."

"It is!" I exclaimed, tossing my curly hair back in the morning breeze. "And this time I've fallen for Prince Charming. I'm so glad I have first period French."

Meg shook her head. "I've never seen you like this before." We trotted up the steps to our traditional red-brick schoolhouse and headed to our lockers. "He really must be something, I repeat. I think I'll have to come with you to check him out."

"You're going to be so upset that you took Spanish and not French." I said, taking out my textbook and unloading my spare gym clothes. "I mean, listen to me! Four years I go through this school without seeing one guy I like, and now I fall for a teacher! Just my rotten luck."

"You can't have fallen for him," Meg remonstrated, "you don't even know him."

"Still," I said, getting my devious look, "he can't be that old, and he is going back to France to finish his educational degree. The same rules don't apply, do they?"

I was teasing, but even so, Meg was too perverted to actually look shocked at my train of thought. She only looked at me in her special way, and then smiled. "I'll take a look, and see if it's worth it."

"Good morning, ladies."

I knew the voice and was firmly convinced that I would look nothing but nonchalant. We turned around and I sensed, rather than saw, Meg's dropped jaw. He gave us the most heartbreaking smile and turned to me personally.

"_Bonjour, Christine._"

I did not normally like the sound of my name with a French accent, but that was probably because I'd never heard it purred before. I decided that I preferred it this way. "_Bonjour, M Chagny. Comment allez-vous, aujourd'hui?_"

"Excuse me," Meg broke in, obviously having control over her jaw again, "but it's bad manners to have a conversation where not everyone speaks the language. How are you, Mr. Chagny? My friend's told me a lot about you."

I would have growled under my breath, but Raoul—Mr. Chagny—seemed to think nothing of the matter.

"Of course, miss, my apologies. I only wanted to ascertain whether or not my student was as fluent as she claimed. Very good, Christine, your accent is quite nice." He favored me with a lingering glance, and then turned to Meg, dipping his head politely. "And may I inquire as to your name, miss?"

Meg looked completely and totally besotted. "I'm Meg Tabin. Christine's my friend."

"I look forward to seeing you again, _mams'elle_. And now if you ladies would excuse me, I must prepare my lesson before my first class arrives." His eyes were back on me again. "Good day, ladies."

I think the most that Meg and I could manage was a nod. He smiled on us as he turned away, and I felt Meg sigh next to me. She turned and stared at me, long and hard.

"He's worth it." There was a pause. "Damn, I wish I'd taken French!"

After one lesson, I could safely say that taking French would never be the same. I had been blessed, the first two years of my experience, with a woman who was an excellent teacher. Then, when she retired to care for her first child, I was stuck with two doughty, French wannabes, who insisted the entire class period be spent reading and discussing works entirely above our comprehension levels. This Raoul Chagny was at least second best, and his looks might well land him in the lead. He was engaging, conversational, focused and kind, encouraging everyone to reach in the language, and yet correcting us and complimenting us when we stretched. He made no comments upon our accents, even though we must have sounded terrible to him, and when we complained in turn about the rapidity of his speech, he slowed down to accommodate. Of course, there was a lot of whispering in the class, especially around the girls, and I knew that most of them would talk of nothing else for the rest of the week, but I was glad that I got to see him outside of class.

I was thrilled, moreover, that Meg couldn't just say I liked him for his looks. There was a sharp, inventive mind underneath the waves of golden hair, and I got to see it. Yes, I floated through the rest of the day, happy as a clam at high water—where did that expression come from—and sooner than I thought, school was over. Thankfully, I had no work that day. Meg and I decided to walk around town. We just left our bags in our lockers (after a good deal of shoving and not a little swearing) and set off. The spring air was just warming up, and after five minutes we both took off our sweatshirts, wrapping them around our waists and reveling in the freedom and mobility.

The thing I loved most about Meg was that she had the same mind as I did. We didn't always have to talk if we were together; most times, we just preferred listening to music, reading, or thinking silently together. Of course, we talked endlessly when we had the right topic, but today was a day for reflection, and we made the unspoken agreement to walk silently.

Meg Tabin was a newly transferred kid to my school, and even though she had settled on my street, we might never have met if she hadn't also transferred into my dance group. Since I was never close to any of the girls there (in general they were too perky for me) and since she didn't know anyone anyway, we managed to gravitate together, and soon we were good friends. Both types of loners, with never any more than three or four close friends at a time—even though she was far more social on the internet, which I could never be—it seemed that we had always been close friends, even after only a month of talking.

I had a lot to think about today. I felt a kind of chagrin as I walked along. It was so odd that after, as I had said to Meg, never feeling any sort of romantic interest in any kid at school before, now I was feeling it for, dare I admit it? two men!

The first, and the one that I felt comfortable telling Meg about, was obvious Raoul de Chagny. I had never met anyone like him. He was a golden man, warm, friendly, kind, charming…and hot as hell itself! But he had to be at least five or six years older than I, and if that wasn't enough of a barrier, he was also my teacher. That kind of a relationship would never ever work. And even if it were feasible, he would never look my way. I was dark and homely. No, I was stung by the bug of admiration, but it would never be requited. I would also never have the courage to tell him that I cared for him either. In other matters, I was as bold as a lioness. In matters of the heart, I was a weak, retiring lily. I was fortunate never to have come across a man to love before. If he didn't notice me, I would never let him know! Thankfully, I was blessed with a natural aversion to stupid teenage boys. Unfortunately, now it was apparent that I had a thing for men!

The other man that I thought about, and that fairly constantly, was the stranger that I had almost been run over by in the parking lot of the library. I was certain that I couldn't tell Meg about his one. I'd be completely overwhelmed by the mélange of strange, puzzling feelings and emotions. I'd never met anyone like him either. But with Raoul, my attraction had obvious, tangible indicators. I knew why I liked him. With the other, I sensed, rather than knew, what sort of a connection I had with him.

In fact, there were no marks at all for me to like on that man. His face was, literally, a blank to me.

Meg and I stopped for hot chocolate, and continued on towards the scenic lake, which was already surrounded by couples of various sorts, or mothers with their children. We appropriated our favorite spot on the retaining wall and gazed down into the water, still silent, for which I was eternally thankful. I would be no companion now, not in my mood.

What I sensed around the masked man (I had to label him that way, because I simply had no other) was intoxicating. Loneliness, darkness, silence, and yet…the most incredible light! The kind of light that shoots straight through the darkness to connect two hearts…and what I wanted, more than anything, was to know that those two hearts were his and mine. I sensed music, I sensed incredible intelligence, I sensed sensibility to the beauty of a rose, or even the violence of a thunderstorm. And overlaying all of these things…I sensed danger. Not petty, violent danger, that results from a flawed personality, or a minor anxiety disorder, but epic danger, the kind that stems from great deeds and redemption for them.

Now that was totally ridiculous, I told myself, as my more logical side came into play. What the hell was I thinking? This is the modern era, girl, not a Shakespeare! It's not King Arthur, and it's certainly not Beowulf. I dabbled my bare toe sorrowfully in the dark water. Those men don't exist anymore. Not here.

But I still imagined it. And I still yearned for it. And if I wanted anything from a man, I realized, was that kind of sense. I did not want a man that you can read about in any teenage novel, and I sure as hell didn't want some dime-a-dozen teenage punk who'd just grow out of all his dreams and ambitions to become a claims adjuster. Maybe the reason I liked men was because they'd already undergone the test of time that claimed so many lesser boys. I shook my head and smiled. My thoughts were so random and disjointed, as there wasn't even any purpose to them; I was building castles in the air, and sooner or later I would realize that air was nothing to build upon.

Meg nudged me gently. "I've come to a conclusion."

I smiled, not grudging her the intrusion. "What?"

She looked towards the sky, lifting her hand to shade her eyes from the sun, and swept her arm down, encompassing the whole lake in one grand gesture. "Raoul de Chagny is a fine man!"

I laughed, the sound echoing across the water. "That he is, Meg, that he is."

We spent the rest of the afternoon rollicking around the town, talking and laughing; the floodgates were open, and though we did not discuss what we had actually been thinking about, we talked about the rest of heaven and earth. But at five in the evening, I had to say goodbye. Nothing was going to stop me from going to make dinner for Daddy before he got home. As I trotted down my road, I imagined the scene; he'd come home, feeling worlds better, to a wonderful pasta and chicken creation by the world's greatest chef (_moi_), and he'd take his medicine right before sitting down to the greatest supper that he'd had in a good long while.

I was still thinking of that when I opened the door to find him half collapsed against the kitchen counter. I was still thinking about it when I called the ambulance. But when they arrived and took him with them, leaving me behind—alone—to deal with the shock, only then were all the ideas of a happy family dinner driven from my mind.


	5. Chapter Five

I just witnessed the first of many heart attacks that would, eventually steal her father from her. As I drove off into the deepening night, the wails of the ambulance filtering further and further off into the distance, I could feel nothing but pity for this poor child, who, all too soon, would be entirely alone in the world. Well, at least she would believe that she would be alone in the world.

I had not felt pity for someone in uncounted years. The feeling was well remembered, even if it was quite odd. I understood why I felt pity for her, but the idea that I could feel pity for prey was strange, even though it felt redeeming. I enjoyed the empathetic pain that I felt. Perhaps I wasn't so far beyond the pale of all human emotion and understanding. If she could redeem me from the earthly hell that I had fallen into, I should fall on my knees and thank her for that. But soon, she would understand why. When her father died (this I had no doubt of) she would be completely without relatives in the world. Her mother's family was dead; her father's was untraceable. A brief stint in a foster home awaited her, before she was thrust into college to fend for herself, living off the life insurance of her dead father. No time to mourn, no time to forget, and certainly no time to heal. I would never see her come to that fate. It would be a simple, incisive move to just get her lost in the paperwork that choked the social services department, and then to just make her disappear.

I smiled, one of the many smiles that I had felt over these past few weeks. The idea that it would be so easy to just take her from her home and spirit her away, with little to no chance of the pair of us ever being discovered, was such a delicious thought that I could hardly do the poor father justice. Even though I had been the harbinger of death for so many, I felt slightly guilty even psychologically hurrying his. But, I justified myself, he could have found treatment for his problem had he cared enough about his daughter to make the effort. He wanted to leave her, and so he would.

Home was, as it always had been these past few weeks, intolerably lonely. Life had become, for me, just a breathless counting of moments and time between glimpses of her. She consumed everything that I was, and yet…she brought out parts of me that I had assumed I would never be able to find again. I honored her and worshipped her, and was now absolutely certain that I loved her as well.

Love. It was an emotion that I had happily never been cursed with. I had never loved another human being before—not in the same way that I loved her. I had loved things, I had loved discovery, and creation; I had even loved my grisly power of death. Insofar as people went, I had been grateful to them, or I had despised them. I had never felt the wrenching, dizzy, soul-connection that I felt with Christine Day.

And yet I knew what love was. I had always been afraid that I would fall into the trap, that I would love someone who could not possibly love me. But now, even though I was nearly paralyzed with fear, I was miraculously set free. I knew what Christine thought, and though I could not be entirely comfortable, I hoped, and prayed, that she would love me as well.

As I stopped the car and got out, I leaned against the cold metal of the door for one moment, before I walked to the house. My skin, under the mask, felt fevered. She threw me into such a volatile emotional state, that I often felt like running or fighting or doing anything to blow off the excess energy. Most often though, I found myself burying myself in my music.

The basement of my house was enormous, stretching far away underground into the darkness of the heart of the world. I had always been more comfortable underground than anywhere else, and this basement was the perfect place for me. Though it was not as deep as I was used (I had often appropriated old bomb shelters in Turkey or Iran) it was still secluded and quiet enough for me to feel secure playing in. My pipe organ, which I had faithfully lugged from country to country, assignment to assignment, now stood like a sentinel in one, brightly candle-lit corner of the subterranean chamber. I had neglected it of late; music often made me dangerously emotional, and in a small town, where murder was thoroughly investigated, I had no outlet for the anger and violence that music aroused in me. But now I had Christine.

The music that I was able to produce now was a far cry from my earlier violent or lustful melodies. It was quiet, peaceful…almost…sweet. _That_ was a tone that I had never expected to find in my music, but I woke up one morning, the day after I had read her journals, as a matter of fact, and I was able to write a tender, loving melody. I wanted so badly for her to hear my music, _her_ music, actually, for she had inspired it, but there was no opening. Yet. All things were possible, I felt now, and sooner or later she would know. What I longed for more than anything was to be able to get a hold of one of her operas, that I might begin composing the score, but her father was home nearly all the time. I resented the sick old bastard, even as I was furious at myself for doing so. He actually was quite sweet to his daughter. He would drive off in the morning, so that she could see him going to his job, but right after she left, he would come back and spend untold hours just lingering in the dying garden or lying helplessly on his bed. I felt fury grow in me again. How dare he fool his daughter, even in the name of love! Liar, disgusting liar! I hastened his death in my mind so that I could hurry the hour when I could steal his daughter.

Anyway, his constant presence in the house had made it impossible for me to get to her computer again. I thought again and again about what sort of operas she liked to write, and I composed music blindly, without her words as inspiration, but I would never make any headway if I did not have specific lyrics to write for. Sooner or later, I would have to get into that house. Perhaps, when she went to school tomorrow, and if her father were not home, I would be able to copy her files. That thought soothed me.

I was worried over my emotional state. Living, as I had, for so many years in a state of quiet passivity, waking up to remember my violent emotions and radical swings in mood was frightening and upsetting. However, all I had to do was remember the methods of precise control that I had used when my emotions were my major tools. Once I caught the habit of constant self-control, it would be easy enough to remember the rest, and take care of the anger again. For right now, though, while I could not quite remember and I could not manage myself, I had to be very cautious not to get too close to her, lest I hurt her without the knowledge.

My fingers caressed the keys of the organ with their quick, sure strokes. Though I had neglected her for a long time, she held no resentment for me. Her keys rang out, the sound was clean and pure, and as I ran up two or three quick scales, the music flowed to my mind and I gave an arpeggio, sliding into a clean, sweet melody. From my mind to my arms to my fingers to the keys to my ears, round and round and round, in a beautiful calliope of sweet, rounded notes. It was soothing to my brain, for my music before this had been harsh, discordant, painful to listen to and yet somewhere among all the chords was a pain-ridden harmony. No longer. Thinking of her, I could remember the sweetness of her smile and the grace of her motion. I could see the way her hair curled and her smile quirked. With my eyes closed, I could play the planes of her face and the contours of her hips. And I was happier than I had ever been in my entire life.

She went to school an hour later than usual. In fact, she looked as if she was only dragging herself out of the house to get away from the nagging feelings, the worry and doubt that plagued her. She probably thought that concentrating on something, anything productive would help the miserable way she felt. My heart ached for her, but there was nothing I could do. Yet.

Her father had not come home. Nor did her face look any less pale; the hospital might not have contacted her last night. As she trudged down the road, her back uncharacteristically bent beneath the intolerable weight of her schoolbag, she was not even attempting to hide her fear and exhaustion. If she had had any sleep last night, I would be incredibly surprised.

But regardless of the way she felt, my way into her home was clear. A quick, in-and-out operation would give me something to focus my musical energy more specifically on. Though I would not begin composing till I was certain of her father's condition, now was the time to make my move. I could not be certain that she would not turn around, or that the hospital would release her father to recuperate at home. Sequential, ordered, calm. That would be the way I would have to act today.

She was very tired. She forgot to lock her front door. Of course, it was probably nothing serious, in her mind. Her street was quiet and safe. I don't believe that there'd been a break-in on her road in its entire history. Unfortunately, what she did not bargain on (what she could not be expected to bargain on) was the obsessive madman who lived only three miles away. One can forgive these mistakes, and she would never even notice the difference.

An air of neglect permeated her house. Though it was a warm spring, the windows had never been opened. She had barely any time at home, between her job and her activities, and with her father's health the being as it was, he was in no state to examine the condition of his home. There were dishes stacked in the sink, pots still were lying on the stove, and the floor and furniture were dusty. The house reeked of dank decay, and death. I was familiar with the smell, but I pitied those who had to live in it. This was no place for Christine to have to live.

Her room was a little less tidy that I had seen it before. Her clothes were tossed haphazardly on the floor, trampled underfoot, and her sheets were tangled together with her quilt. Her books were stacked everywhere, as before, but this time, they were randomly and sloppily distributed. Her uniform was nowhere to be found. Her laptop was running, the screen left on its dark screen saver, and I adjusted my gloves. Leaving fingerprints was not a good idea at this juncture. The time was approaching, and I wanted absolutely no marks to connect me with her.

She had left a document up on her screen, and I noticed it was a half-finished explication of a prompt on The Canterbury Tales. The book itself lay half open, and a rubric on bright orange paper had been stuck between the leaves. A half drunk cup of coffee also sat beside her computer, the liquid cold and stale, and a picked at blueberry muffin, already hard, now stood testament to her sleepless night.

I minimized her file and quickly inserted my USB key into the back of her computer. Opening her 'Operas' file, I copied and saved each of the files, as well as the 'Production Notes' to my key. Wiping her computer's memory and bringing her file back up, I quickly erased all traces of my gloved hands, and let her screensaver drift back onto the screen. Stepping carefully, I was about to leave her room when I caught sight of an open notebook sprawled across her bed. This must be her current journal. I approached it cautiously, almost as if I were afraid of some sort of trap, and glanced down.

The pen of her entry had been smudged by tearstains, I saw, and she had smudged them even worse as she tried to wipe them off. I flipped back several pages, until I saw the obligatory date. She must have written as much as ten pages last night alone. If was as if the only way she could stave off hysteria was by controlling her fear enough to put it down on paper. Admirable.

_Meg and I walked to the lake after school today. We talked a lot about Raoul de Chagny, the new teacher of my French class. I knew that Meg would find him just as attractive as I did._

I was very troubled by this new way of writing. The idea that she could admire anyone physically raised such automatic and involuntary jealously and dislike that I nearly stepped back from the book, rather than have my fury raised again. Raoul de Chagny…I should know that family…I was certain that the name sounded very familiar. I put the thought aside and looked back down at the book. Her forced calmness of mind and relation of the inconsequential details of the day, I recognized, were just masks to conceal her true worries until she was calm and quiet enough to manage writing about them.

_I thought about Raoul in comparison with the other man that I've thought about a lot recently. The masked man that I met at the library, who gave me the wonderful book on opera and who, I am certain, has a mystery around him that is greater than the secrets of kings. But that sounds silly. I don't know anything about him, and certainly not enough to make that kind of judgment. For all I know, he's nothing more than an eccentric European gentleman. But I still don't think that's it._

I turned over the page, hoping to find some more about her thoughts of me, but I was disappointed. The next two pages just related her examination of this Raoul person, which, though amusing to read, was very troubling and though it gave me much information into his character, also bothered me with the minute detail with which she related it. I sensed, with mounting jealously, the admiration and frank attraction that she felt for him. But I knew her temperament with regards to love. She would never make a move, and certainly her inborn knowledge of the mores of society and the rules which governed man would tell her that a student/teacher relationship would be far beyond her grasp. I might worry about another girl, but not her. Still, an attachment of this sort would be difficult to supersede, especially if it grew any closer. I would have to see to it that I knew everything about this Raoul, in case it became necessary to take care of his influence. Yet another thing to add to my to-do list. If it weren't so much fun, I might begin to think of Christine as nothing but a bother!

_Father was taken to the hospital. I came home to find him collapsed across the kitchen counter, barely breathing, with blood streaming from his mouth and his arms locked across his chest. It was a heart attack. The paramedics were very kind to me, and they assured me that they would take good care of him, calling me whenever something new happened, but they wouldn't let me ride with him to the hospital, because I had school in the morning. Oh, my God, school! How am I supposed to get up and do that tomorrow? I can't call myself absent, I'm not old enough, and my father's in the hospital. I have to get up, when I can't even think, when I'm paralyzed. Oh, God, he could die! What would I do without him? How could I manage?_

Here her writing went into the hysterical. She was terribly afraid, and more aware of her difference and her loneliness. If her father died, she would have no one. And even through the storm of words and feelings, I sensed her better, more logical self trying to calm her down, and force her to write more logically, more specifically. After her flood of fears ebbed away (in another three pages) she began to write about how she would manage in the next few days, when the hospital was supposed to call her, and other details that helped her calm enough to begin her homework.

There was a soft sound in the house, little creaks and sighs, as if the house was settling down into its old, staid ways. There was age, and sadness in this home, and it was seeping into me, and I understood it. Her mother had died here, and very soon her father would too, I had no doubt of that whatsoever.

I watched her when she came home from school. She was running, panting heavily, and the first thing that she did when she came in was check to see if the hospital had called. There were no messages, and she slumped to the kitchen table, holding the phone in her hand and clinging to it like a lifeline. She pulled out the phonebook, and looked as if she was toying with the idea of calling the emergency ward. After a while, she spent a breathless five minutes on the phone, after which her body visibly relaxed. She turned on her radio and sat in the living room, doing her homework and evidently much easier. I would have given a great deal to know what could have taken away her anxiety like that; I assumed, naturally, that her father was greatly improved, but she seemed almost…cheerful.

I watched her for a half hour more, as she typed on her laptop and switched CDs, evidently thinking very hard, as she did a lot of pacing. I assumed she was writing and improving one of her operas, and the hand that held the key in my pocket twitched; I wanted to read the files that I had taken. But there was enough time for that later—I wanted a fresh day to begin to explore her creations. Tonight I would spend in the peaceful composition of music. Tomorrow I could examine the specifics of what I would have to work for. Considering her emotional state, there was still plenty of time.

I never really felt complete without music; it seemed to evoke all the aspects of my being and bring me together into one complete soul. Even while I was thinking of the missing piece of me that was Christine, I was more than happy while I was with my music. I was spending more and more time with it, exploring the new tonalities that were emerging with Christine playing the part of my muse. Somehow the music that I was making now was more beautiful, more poignant, and more yearning than anything that I had ever made before. The music wept and sobbed, begged and pleaded, even as it was triumphant and exultant. I myself was intrigued with this new combination.

Sometime during the early morning hours, I stopped. My fingers ached, since I must have been playing for six or seven hours straight. My head rang with the sounds of crying, of laughter, of the greatest happiness and sadness of the soul. There was no emotion now that lay untouched by my music. I had explored every human thought and feeling. My soul accepted and assimilated everything. I felt drained, as if I had given all of myself to the great endeavor that was my music.

I prayed that she would give me something to work for, something to strive for, that needed a greatness of music and a sweep of drama to carry the lyrics through. I knew that the drama lay right there in her soul—I had seen it behind her eyes, like a fountain waiting to be tapped.

God, how I loved her! That she could do this for me was something that I had never expected to find, in the whole course of my life, in another human being. That she could make me think and feel in a way totally alien to my usual train of thought endeared me to her and bound me to her: it bound the two of us together. I would not let her escape from that tie. There was nothing that I would not do for her.

There was nothing that I would not do to win her, to have her for myself, completely and entirely.

I now saw what a dangerous course I was setting myself to. But as I had decided before (probably from the first moment I had seen her) I could not care for those things. She had brought me back into the reaches of humanity, but I would violate every rule that humanity held dear in order to have her.


	6. Chapter Six

Michele handed me her rough draft, and for a moment I was absolutely stunned, wondering why. Rough drafts on the French compositions weren't due until tomorrow. With all the stuff going on, I hadn't even started to write yet. She looked at me as if I had fish coming out of my ears.

"Of course the rough draft's due today. We revise and hand it in tomorrow. Were you even paying attention?"

Apparently not. I'd come in the day before an hour later than usual, missing French first period, and no one had seen fit to fill me in about that particular fact. I groaned, taking her paper and starting to scan for incorrect verb tenses or phrases that didn't fit. This was the one morning that I resented Raoul for being an engaged teacher. He came around to the two of us and asked why Michele had nothing to do. Not feeling quite up to a full explanation for my missing assignment, I solved the problem by telling him I'd forgotten. He asked to see me after class, and I agreed, biting my lip. The one thing I did not feel like doing was talking to anybody about why I wasn't feeling up to par. The hospital had insisted on keeping my father an extra day for observation and counseling, and I was starting to become seriously worried.

But I could hardly avoid talking to my teacher. He asked me (still in French) if I had a class second period. I told him that I was free. He nodded, closed the door, and switched to English.

"Christine, is there something wrong?"

Now where exactly would I start to answer that? He knew that something was up, but maybe there was a way I could minimize damage.

"My father has been in the hospital for the past few days with a heart attack." I began, speaking slowly. "I've been working a lot as well. I'm sorry if I don't have the work; I'll make it up as soon as possible."

"Is your mother at the hospital with him?"

He had no idea the pain he was causing me. I forgave him, of course, but I really did not want to follow that conversation thread.

"My mother's been dead for six years." I refused to look at him, so I could not see the look on his face. Being French, it must have been hard for him to pry in the first place, and now, having brought something so obviously personally painful out into the open, he must be mortified. I felt a cruel sort of vindication, but then again, I was most emphatically not in a good mood. I heard him clear his throat, and he shuffled some papers around on his desk, trying to cover for his embarrassment. A quick glance upwards confirmed my thoughts; his face was red, right up to the roots of his blond hair.

"I am so sorry Christine. For the fact itself, and the fact that I brought it up. Please hand in your work whenever you feel able. Of course there will be no late penalties. I'm sure you want the rest of your free period."

He motioned me towards the door, and I sighed with relief. Nothing would please me more than to get out of the range of his pity.

"Christine."

His voice, urgent, soft, and kind, drew me back and made me feel guilty for maligning him, even in my mind.

He smiled. "If you need someone to talk to, please don't hesitate to stop by my office."

My first reaction was to nod, smile politely, and forget about it. But there was something in his face so sincere that it made me wonder; maybe I would need someone to talk to, especially if things got worse. I still smiled.

"Thanks."

Meg glanced at me, smiling above her sandwich. I had just finished relating the morning conversation with my teacher, and now she was giving me such a smile that I felt embarrassed just looking at it. She took a bite, chewed thoughtfully, and swallowed.

"You should go and talk to him."

"I don't talk to teachers, as a general rule, Meg," I said, shaking my head and taking a sip of milk, "besides, I have you."

"_I_ wouldn't want to talk to me if I could talk to him," she said quickly, "besides, at least he understands. My Spanish teacher would tell me to do my homework if I were waiting for my father to recover from double-bypass surgery."

I chuckled and shook my head again, staring down at the table. "What could I say? What could I talk about? I couldn't tell him all the doubts and fears, hell, I can't even tell you about those. What's there to say?"

"I don't know," Meg dragged out her syllables, making me feel like a total moron, "anything. Everything. You could talk to him just like a friend."

"What are you suggesting?" My voice was incredulous. "Are you saying that I should have a relationship with him or something? With my teacher?"

"Stranger things have happened. I've seen the way he looks at you."

I was now way beyond confused. "What way?"

"Come on!" Meg was exasperated. "He stops by most mornings to say hello…"

"His classroom is right beyond our lockers!"

"He's always looking right at you…"

"It's polite to make eye contact during a conversation, or didn't you notice?"

"And he asks when you're going to be working!" Meg finished triumphantly. "I'd say he's just about as into you as he can be. Seriously, he always comes to your register, doesn't he?"

I didn't want to admit anything. "I _am_ his student. He's just being polite, because he knows how bored I get there. It doesn't mean anything. Some of my other teachers stop to say 'hi' when they see me at the store."

Meg shook her head and sighed, starting to eat again. "Not that way, Christine. You know, sometimes I think you're completely nuts. You walk right past it when there are guys falling over themselves to date you. Totally oblivious is more like it."

I snorted. "Now when have there been guys falling over _anything_ just to date me?"

"Uh, let's see, how about Marcus…"

"Loser."

"Jeremy…"

"Already had a girlfriend, the slut."

"Chris…"

"All right, all right!" I exclaimed, humiliated and furious. "I noticed that Chris had a crush on me. But I wasn't interested in any of those guys."

"But you are interested in Raoul." Meg persisted. "And if you have a shot with him, why not go for it?"

"There are so many reasons!" I cried, almost ready to smack her over the head, "He's my teacher, he's probably about four or five years older than I am, he's from a different country…"

"But you_ like _him!"

I saw that Meg was implacable. "So what if I do?"

"What's that quote from Shakespeare?" she mused, distracted for a moment, "'Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments…'" When she saw my confused face she clarified. "English class. I had to study something, didn't I? And Julius Caesar was so boring."

"I'm lost." I reverted back to my sandwich in an injured silence. Meg stared at me and started talking as if she were lecturing a child.

"All I'm saying is, you could at least, at the very least, try talking to him. He likes you, and he'll help you out with your other classes too. Talk to your teachers maybe, and get them to relax a bit with the homework and projects. You know, just until your dad gets better."

Another sharp jolt of anxiety and pain ran through me. "I don't want to…"

"Talk about it. I know, I know." Meg was very quiet, and she turned away as I hid my tears in my napkin. "Hey! I know the perfect excuse! That summer academy in Paris that you were gushing about. Why not ask him if he knows anything about it?"

"Elysees Academy," the longing in my voice was plain. It was an exclusive summer program, six weeks, for American students serious in the study of French. The academy was paid for, but it was only open to 25 senior high school students from the North East. The entrance exam was said to be harder than a college final, and there were thousands of applicants each year. I'd wanted to apply for the longest time, but with all the things going on, I'd let my studies lapse seriously. I knew enough French to do well in class, but as to passing such a prestigious exam…

"You were telling me how you'd probably need a tutor," Meg said, pressing her advantage, "what better tutor than a native Frenchman? Ask him, Christine, I'm sure that he'd love to tutor you!"

I have to admit, I was sorely tempted. The chance to catch up and pass the exam, coupled with the feelings I had for my teacher (which were dangerous, to say the least) made the proposition very agreeable. I had to grasp for an excuse, quickly.

"I have no time after school, what with work and everything going on right now. When could I have the time to study French?"

Meg had a ready answer. "Saturday mornings. I'm sure he wouldn't mind coming in, you never have to work, and the school is still open. Where's the problem?"

Darn you, Meg.

"I never know when my dad's going to need me."

Meg sighed, recognizing that I was grasping at straws. "He wanted you to go before all this happened. Why could he have any objections now? He's a big boy, he can take care of himself."

I saw the only way I was going to get her to stop talking about it was to get the tutoring. After all, I reasoned, it might not all be bad. I was sure that Raoul could speak his own language well enough. I nodded my ascension, and Meg finished her lunch with an irrepressible grin on her face.

But I would not ask that same day, much to Meg's dismay. I didn't have to work, and I determined that I was going to spend several happy hours by myself, waiting for the doctors to call me and tell me that my father was fine, and that I could go and bring him home. Maybe I could work out the lyrics that had been bubbling in my brain all morning. Or perhaps I could just relax and write some whimsical little fairy tale. It was hard to keep from smiling when the last bell rang and I realized I had the whole afternoon spread out in front of me. Even the weather mimicked my mood; the sun was shining with all its might, the clouds looked as if they had been made out of fresh cotton, and the trees were leafing out and every spring plant was in full bloom. I walked past the two sentinel magnolia trees that stood guard on the lawn before the school and was just turning towards my house when a car pulled up beside me.

Of course he would have a convertible. Only having my favorite kind of car could make him even more appealing. He gave me that smile of his, and in that moment, I knew that Meg was right. Somehow, for some reason, Raoul de Chagny liked me. Me! The feeling was heady and flattering. I couldn't help but smile back, the first natural smile that I'd had in several days now.

"Do you need a ride somewhere, _mademoiselle_?"

"I can just as easily walk, thank you." I said, still lingering by the side of his car.

"Walk all the way home?" his eyes were incredulous. "You will get there faster if I drive you. Come, put your bag in the back seat and get in."

I would get home sooner. Maybe the doctors would call me earlier than I expected. It might be for the best if I took his offer. I shrugged my bag off my shoulder and climbed in, looking back in just enough time to see Meg's triumphant wave from the corner of the sidewalk. I swear I could see her grin from where I stood looking back. Shaking my head, I sat down and fastened my seat belt. I noticed that he was not wearing his, but I would have felt too embarrassed lecturing him over Connecticut state law.

"Where do you live?" his voice was quiet, even over the sound of the wind. I was momentarily startled; I had been staring absently out the window.

"Beech Street. It's…"

"I know where it is. Right off of Main Street, isn't it?"

"Right."

We were silent for a few moments, and since I still felt shy, I did not feel like bringing up Meg's topic. Perhaps tomorrow, during the formal setting of the schoolroom, I'd be able to do it. But not here, driving in his very wonderful car. Luckily (or perhaps unfortunately) he already knew what I was going to ask him.

"Your friend Meg tells me that you are looking for a tutor to help you prepare for the Elysees Academy examination."

"I'm going to _kill_ her!" I exclaimed, the words out of my mouth before I could reconsider. He laughed openly, and in a few seconds of shocked silence on my part, I joined him. "That's something I want to do: confess to murder in front of my teacher!" I said, still chuckling.

"Strange as it may sound, I have heard worse." He said. "But she is a very devoted friend, you realize. She told me you were too proud to ask me for help. But I would love to tutor you, at any time convenient."

I couldn't think of the proper words to thank him with, but he went on without my help.

"It seemed very apropos, considering that my parents were both donors to that school, and my brother was on the board of admissions."

My jaw dropped. He was from _those_ de Chagnys! Why hadn't I put the names together before! His family was one of the few surviving French aristocrats! I should have recognized the name—I had read about Phillippe de Chagny and his unfortunate death—since I was a great patron of the Academy's website, I'd seen the message they posted about it. And this was his brother!

"I heard about your brother's death," I said, laboring over the words. I wasn't very good at this sort of thing. "I'm very sorry."

"Phillippe and I had many differences in opinion," he said, choosing his words carefully as he turned onto Beech Street. "He disapproved of what I did when I was younger. I disapproved of what his extra-curricular activities were. And old brotherly feud," he continued, lightening his tone, "I'm sorry, I should not even mention it. Which house is yours, Christine?"

"Oh, you can just drop me off at this driveway here. It's a wreck, you don't want to take you car down the road." I hopped out and retrieved my bag. "Thank you so much for the ride."

"It will always be my pleasure, Christine." He said, smiling (a little gravely this time, I thought)

I stood on the side of the road, twisting my shoulder strap and wishing that I didn't have to say 'goodbye'. But he took care of the farewells, as usual.

"I will see you this Saturday morning in the classroom, when shall we say; eight o'clock?"

I could only nod my agreement.

"I will see you in class tomorrow, Christine."

And with one last smile and a lingering glance, he pulled off further down the road. I followed his beautiful silver convertible with my eyes until the trees shrouded it from sight. I turned to walk slowly down the driveway, but halfway down, I couldn't help but throw down my bag and twirl around, once, twice, until I fell down in a breathless, dizzy heap.

My heart was singing. He likes me! He _likes _me! He likes _me_! It was crazy, but he did. And I was crazy, but I was starting to like him just as well.

When I got into the house, the phone was ringing. I tripped over a stepstool trying to get to the receiver, and my voice was harsh and breathless as I answered.

"Yes!"

"Miss Day?"

"Dr. Draper," I said, "Is my father ready to come home?"

The voice on the other end sounded very cheerful. "Oh, he's quite ready. We only wanted to make sure that his blood pressure responded well to the medication with no reactions of any kind. He will be coming home with a prescription to be filled. Now, Miss Day, I understand that you attend school and hold a part-time job?"

"Yes, sir." I answered. Daddy's all right!

"Your father ought to be able to retain his former job, but if your own job is not an absolute financial necessity, may I suggest that you suspend your working hours for a month or two? This is only a temporary arrangement, to insure that your father does not suffer another heart attack while you are away. When it is apparent that the medication does its job, I have no concerns that you will both be able to hold your jobs."

I grimaced. I was depending on my job to make ends meet for college next year, but I could work my butt off during the summer and somehow we would get by. I had gotten a sizeable scholarship from my university, but I did need money to pay for a new used car for the commute and my books. But, Father's job in the orchestra really did pay well, as he was a senior member and quite respected. I supposed we could manage for a few months.

The doctor continued to speak, giving me instructions on care, medicinal side effects, and things to watch out for. He also told me that my father had undergone some psychological therapy while he had been in the hospital, and he recommended that if my father wanted to discuss certain things that I should attempt to make myself available. While there probably was none, I imagined that I could hear some sort of rebuke in his voice, and I felt guilt overwhelm me.

After our conversation ended, he told me that my father would be waiting for me in the emergency waiting room. I dropped my bag, grabbed my purse, and started our old behemoth Dynasty, the old engine sputtering and coughing to life like a rheumatic grandmother. She complained all the way down the road, but when I put her on the highway, she seemed to pick up the pace, as ready to see Daddy as I was.

I prayed that his time in the hospital would have frightened him as to the reality of death, but I knew that somehow this was not the case. All I could hope for was what I had prayed for before; that he would wait until I was ready. Then, all I could do was let him go.

I insisted on tucking him in that night, watching him take his medicine, and making him a wonderful dinner. He laughed at my motherly concern, and did whatever I told him too meekly and obediently. I told him about my new tutor for French, and he was as enthusiastic as I was about the possibility of acceptance into the summer academy. He insisted that he would be fine at work, and told me to keep my job, but I firmly told him that I would make arrangements tomorrow for a six week furlough from the store.

We laughed over the pasta and broiled chicken (one of the dishes I can make with excellence) and that night was perfect. He went to sleep early, telling me that some of the narcotics from the IV line were still percolating through his system, and I stayed up, listening to music and reading, peacefully, and hearing the house settle into more familiar rhythms.

He told me that he would go back to work next Monday, and I knew the extra sleep and rest would be good for him for the next couple of days. For right now, everything seemed perfect.

I cleaned the kitchen, washing all the filthy dishes that I had left sitting, and sweeping the kitchen and beating out the old area rug in the living room. I brought out some old afghans, so that dad could have a comfortable place to curl up in tomorrow, and before I went to sleep, I checked in on him. When I saw that he was sleeping like a baby, I finally let myself relax, and I slept that night as I hadn't slept for the past three days. The only sounds I heard were the shrilling of insects and birds and the quiet rhythm of my own peaceful heart.


	7. Chapter Seven

He gave her a ride home. Now why should he do that, I wonder? Of course, I already knew the answer to that. She was a little less innocent than I had imagined. My mouth twisted in a bitter curl as I watched her dance around in her driveway when she thought she was unobserved. My heart wrenched as I saw the beginnings of the way in which I would loose her. This Raoul de Chagny—and I knew who he was now—was going to be trouble for me if their interactions progressed any further. I had no doubts of what I had to do, and that quickly.

Even as certain as I was of her infidelity, my heart had grave misgivings. She had every right to be pleased over the attentions of a handsome young man. As far as I knew—and due to my increasing looks into her journals, I knew quite a bit—she had never had any affections for any boy, and nor had she ever had a relationship. Even when she was curious, something always seemed to get in her way. The only relationship she had been in, she had neglected her boyfriend to the point where he had dumped her out of sheer exasperation. She had expressed no grief, only a sense of freedom over the incident, so I did not count that she had ever been attached. She had every right to feel happy over what was happening to her. Was it not the same feeling that I had had after discovering her? However, she was young. I was certain that with a little…persuasion, she would forget all about this man. I was tremendously persuasive, when I wanted to be.

I left her alone and walked back to my home. What she did was of little interest to me, as I had more things to plan at the moment. First, I might as well take care of the thing that I left hanging loose all those years ago. The bothersome little brother.

Phillippe de Chagny had been, in plain terms, nothing more than a common thief. Unfortunately for the poor Comte, he had stolen from the academic programs in some very unforgiving countries. I worked primarily for Russia, Iran, and Turkey when I lived in Europe, and it was Russia, this time, that paid me to take care of their embarrassing French counterpart, Phillippe. The stupid man had stolen millions from Russia's overseas tutoring programs, and while the government could care less about the education of high school students, there was more than enough humiliation in store for them should the embezzlement be discovered.

Of course, Phillippe was a man high in French society. The name of 'Comte' was more of a nickname than an actual title, but he carried enough weight to make his influence felt like one of the old aristocrats. As such, the man, through no work of his own, was making the Russian government pay through the nose to find an assassin capable of pulling off his execution without any clues leading back to them. I feared nothing, not men and not governments, and it was to me and my exorbitant fee that they finally resorted.

In fact, that job had made it possible for me to retire. 10,000,000 dollars (I do not deal in the flimsy euro) will make it possible for anyone to live comfortably, and with the modest savings that I had managed to accrue over the years, the life of assassin was made entirely superfluous. After all, all I wanted was a quiet home far away from the places in which I had made my nefarious fortune, and a secluded spot to compose and think.

The assassination was so simple that I almost felt embarrassed about taking the money. The man put up no struggle, he had no defenses, and his security system was so elementary that I could have gotten past it two decades before. And there was the fact that he was half drunk when I cut his throat. I would have preferred strangulation, as there is less chance of a stray fingerprint and it is cleaner all around, but the Russian government insisted on having the say in the manner of death, and since I was getting my fee, I could have cared less.

Unfortunately, the one thing that marred the total technical perfection of this execution was the little brother who stumbled upon my escape. I had it perfectly planned; a quick jump to the fire escape (de Chagny was staying in his Paris apartment) and from there to my waiting car. The thing I did not bargain on was the younger brother, Raoul, come to make reparations with his older brother. He not only spotted my car, he recorded the license plate number and made me hide on the cold metal of the fire escape until he finally called the police. I had to scrap the car immediately, for, though obviously I did not use my real name in the registration, my face (or lack of one) was so distinctive that I knew the police would be able to track me. The only thing that I could prevent by ditching the car was preventing them from finding out who I was working for. Of course, I was totally unconcerned that the police would find me; the French law officers are remarkably inept, second only to the Russians themselves. And the Russian minister of Education always wondered how I managed to show up in his office without anyone having seen me.

In hindsight, I reflected as I walked, I should just have jumped down and killed him as well. I was often tempted, after the operation, to go back and take care of the loose end. My research had told me that Raoul and Phillippe had been alienated for quite some time, through mutual disagreement. However, Raoul was also of the sort of men who would never forget either or slight to their families or a wrongful death. I could not fear the man himself—the Chagnys were basically harmless—but I could fear his motivation.

The only reason that he continued to draw breath was that, at that point in my professional career, I was very tired of murder. As my gift to the world, Raoul could keep his life. I was too tired, and quite frankly too disgusted, to murder somebody else. I was off to America, and I had already selected the town. Could it be that I'd committed my last murder a bare three years ago? But it was. Time passed so quickly and so slowly. I sighed. These musings could wait until later.

Right now, even though I was angry with her, I had to continue my work on her operas. After all, I could hardly stay angry with her for long. It was the idiotic de Chagny boy that I had to worry about, but soon I would take care of him, and I would not have to mind anymore. As a matter of fact, as I had already made myself familiar with his schedule, I could move on him as quickly as tonight. Still, haste did make waste, as Christine had pointed out to me. There was time still.

Ah, her operas! Could I ever say enough about them? Where would I begin? Would I start with the interminable joy each time I read her lyrics? Would I commence instead with the feeling, the thought, the artistry that had gone into each of these careful little plots? Or would I instead address the music that flowed to my mind as I read and studied each character?

Perhaps a little of each.

I started with her one completed opera, _The Wicked Life_, and found a one-act opera in six scenes. She was scrupulous in labeling when she had begun and when she had finished for the day. Each of her operas had been started less than a month ago—this one, she wrote, she had finished in six days. She began each of her operas with a plot summary of the whole, and then a breakdown into each scene. She described what the setting looked like, and stage directions abounded (it was obvious that she was more adept at playwriting than opera composing) but that was all to my benefit. Since I could not yet discuss the direction she would like to go with her opera, all of her notes made it simple for me to understand.

Her opera took place in a prison cell, where a prisoner, who has refused to be present at his own trial waits for the guilty or not guilty verdict. He knows that a guilty would mean his death. He does not plan to make any appeals. This information was conducted to the audience through a duet between the jailer, who is teasing the man from outside the cell, and the prisoner himself. After this, the man starts an aria, in which he states, in the refrain, that he has led an undeniably wicked life. There were two or three exceptional passages in the aria, but I knew my favorite was at the end, where the man cries,

_Guilty is the only verdict that they should send_

_I would only welcome a timely, merciful end_

_They cannot imagine all the pain and strife—_

_I await the rest that comes after the wicked life!_

The prisoner then begins to reminisce about the three great crimes that landed him in prison for the final time. He sings behind a screen, in front of which other actors pantomime the actions that he describes. Between each of these memories, there is a brief scene where the guard returns to tell him the tide of the trial. The prisoner responds calmly, and continues to sing.

After the memories are over, Christine wrote, in bold letters,

THREE MINUTES OF SILENCE IN WHICH THE PRISONER DOES NOTHING BUT SIT ON HIS COT.

Putting in an area of blank space was risky, in any theatrical composition. I assume she wanted it there for dramatic effect, and the right actor would pull it off marvelously, but it was risky nonetheless.

After the silence, the guard returns, livid. He tells the prisoner that he has been declared 'not guilty' by the jury, and that his sentence has been reduced to life in prison without parole. The prisoner's lawyer crowds by the door, congratulating him, but the prisoner does nothing but look down at his hands.

"The rest of my life…here? It isn't fair. It isn't…right."

Spoken softly, those words end the opera.

The first time I read her composition, it took me a quiet period of reflection to comprehend what a bold statement she was making with that last declaration. The opera was incredibly admirable, and already my mind was filled with dozens of tunes, each begging to be placed into the opera. It took me another day of thought to even begin to compose themes and duets. I wanted the whole piece to move like a wave, with the grand finale to come in the aria before the period of silence. The audience would be expecting the verdict of 'guilty' to come back, as an anticlimax. But they would be shocked and horrified by the 'not guilty', and that was exactly what Christine wanted. The bottom would drop out of the opera, but there would be no swelling of the music, and no resolution. The pointlessness of it amused me.

When I sat down to my organ to begin composing, I started quietly, building up the music throughout each of the memories, giving each of them their own themes and steadily rising to a climax right before the news of the 'not guilty' verdict. I was astounded by the force of the final chord…at the very least I was certain that she would like it.

The music cleared my mind and focused my thoughts. I would take care of that loose end, and the sooner the better.

Raoul de Chagny lived only slightly closer to the commercial center of town. It seemed that his Parisian tastes, even though raised in Toulouse, made it impossible for him to live any further from a shopping center. He had rented an expensive condominium, the cookie-cutter style of it probably very offensive to his senses. It bothered me even more—I could never stand anything that vulgar or monotonous—and I thought it only fitting that he should have to make his home there.

The night was quiet and peaceful…there was no reason for anyone to be expecting an attempt on his life, and Raoul de Chagny was no exception. He was reading in his living room, his fair hair and face stunningly illuminated by the lamplight. His frame was completely at ease, draped across a comfortable armchair, and every so often he would toss his head back, unintentionally, and a beautiful wash of gold hair swept from one shoulder to the other.

I hated him, beyond all human reason. I could not let my Christine spend one more moment in his company. Why did he have to look at her? Why did she have to be the one to attract his eye? I understood the attraction, but I could not forgive it. Not for an instant. She was mine, she belonged to me!

I must have made some kind of motion or a noise, or maybe he just had the sense of unease, but in either case, he stood and approached the window, beneath which I crouched, like a hunted animal. He opened the window and leant down on the casing, sighing in the cool night and staring out over my head to the woods that backed his condo. I was in a bad spot, otherwise I might have tried right then. Strangulation, however, is much easier when the murderer is on the high ground. I knew of Raoul's strength, and I did not want to take an unnecessary risk. He would be in the perfect spot for me soon enough, and then there would be no problems. A swish of the lasso and a snap of the perfect neck—what an aria I could compose to that!

After shaking his head and sighing once more, Raoul turned his back to the window, giving me the perfect opportunity to slip around to the bedroom window, which was on the other side of the house. This operation was slightly more dangerous—the condo on this side fronted the road, and I had to make my picking the lock on the window an operation of perfect timing. A driver on the road might not even notice me, but then again, I could land in a lot of trouble.

With a jerk and a slight snap, the window raised slightly on its hinges. I pulled it up and slipped inside, concealing myself inside the large closet. Hidden in the darkness of its recesses, I settled it to wait until Raoul was entirely at my mercy. I did not want to murder him while he was sleeping, but as he turned his back to the closet, it seemed to me perfectly fair to slip the noose over his neck then. After all, fair play has never been something I have ever been known for. He would know that well enough, if not from the dealings I had with his brother (I know that he had done some very thorough investigations about me after his brother's demise) then from his own experience. Of course, by the time he knew everything, it might well be too late for him. Perhaps, if he proved to be enough of a fighter, I might only frighten him this time. I haven't hunted someone for sheer enjoyment in a long time, and I believed that after three years of inactivity I deserved a little fun.

I heard his heavy footsteps in the hallway, and put away the impulse to chuckle. He slid open the far closet door and slipped a robe from its hanger. I peered through the crack I had opened in the door on my side. He tied the robe around his waist and climbed into bed, rolling over onto his left side, facing the window. I would wait another few minutes, till he was just about to drift off, and then…

The minutes passed, and his breathing grew calm and regular. My hand tightened on the knot of the noose as I stepped softly out of the closet. I stared down at him from the edge of his bed, and marveled at the childlike innocence with which he managed to sleep while Death stood only a foot and a half away. I wondered how he would react if he knew that his brother's murderer were in the same town. It might be an interesting situation.

In fact, while the idea of killing Raoul like this was very satisfying in its own way, I realized that it did not have much artistry to it, especially when given the past history we had had. Surely it was not enough to just kill him, when I could frustrate him and anger him, make him despair and _then_ kill him? The possibilities of the ways I could make him suffer made my head spin.

So, I took the first step. I rigged up my noose to dangle right above his perfect neck, and calmly sat down at his bedside table and wrote a little note. Nothing fancy, just simple, and to the point. Simplicity is more elegant, sometimes, and in murder I was very fond of this particular method of torture. In fact, what I wrote to him was very good for his health.

_If you would care to keep yourself in good health, _monsieur, _keep yourself away from your student, Christine._

I would have made myself more vague, but since Raoul and I already had an acquaintance of sorts, I knew he would not involve the police, doubting, as he already did, their competence in matters concerning me. I could afford to be specific. I only hoped that for his safety, he would obey my instructions.

However, I knew Raoul de Chagny. He would never do as I said, just because it was I who said it. I would be highly gratified when he did that. I was in sore need of entertainment.

I signed my note with my customary rose symbol (for which I had become feared throughout a good part of the underground in Europe and most of the Middle East) and left it hanging in the crux of the noose. The dramatic effect was quite stunning. I was pleased with myself over the artistry of the work, glad that I had decided to postpone his demise. It was much better this way.

I quickly swept the apartment with my customary care and attention, making certain that I had left no clues behind. Raoul might not involve the police in his investigation, but he was not an idiot either. I feared him more than the officers of the law, simply because he was stubbornly persistent, and might stumble upon me through sheer dumb luck. I had left nothing, and, watching the road first to make certain that no one would see me, I slid out of the window and locked it again.

My car started up silently, and I drove away from his home. It was, by this point, only about 11:30. But I had stayed longer than I had intended too. Minutes had stretched, unnoticed, into hours. Still, there was time. Perhaps she would still be awake.

The lights in the other houses on the road were dark, but her living room light was still on, and I saw Christine, sitting near the little table in that room, typing away. I parked the car in the bend of the road just beyond her house, the vehicle fading away into the eternal darkness of the night, and crept closer to the window. The night was warm, and her window was open. I heard music drifting out through the window, and I recognized the tune. _Si. Mi chiamano Mimi._ It was an aria from La Boheme. I leaned forward, catching the soprano's impassioned tone, listening to her shy and modest declarations in the song. Christine's head was bobbing in time with the beat; she was always a dancer.

I sat beneath her window for what seemed like an eternity. I could picture her sitting there, peacefully unaware of the man burning in torment outside her walls, just listening and writing her dreams. The CD must have been a recording of arias, for I heard sections from Tosca, Madame Butterfly, and some others, before she finally stopped the recording.

It was torture, the sweetest kind of torture that I could ever imagine, when she came to shut the window. She lingered there for a moment, gazing out into space, and I held my breath, not even daring to look up. I wanted to, I craved another sight of her face, but I could not bring myself to do it.

She sighed then, as if she had been expecting to see someone and was now disappointed, and she shut the window, bringing oceans of separation between us again. Pain welled up in my chest. I wanted there to be no dividers between us, no walls, no barriers.

The lights flicked out above my head, and I heard the faint echoes of her footsteps going up the creaking stairway. The light in her bedroom came on, faintly, for about three minutes, and then it too went out. I was alone in the darkness. She, like Juliet on her balcony, was so high above me that she was unreachable. For now, of course. Everything would change with time.

I walked slowly back to my car, with every moment wishing that I could run back to her and bring her with me. These mad thoughts I suppressed, telling myself to be patient. I had much to do in the next few days. I needed to be sure that that idiotic boy obeyed my orders, and if he did not, I needed to give him a more tangible reminder of my significant abilities. While doing that, I might also reveal myself to Christine again. She was thinking of me, which was excellent, but without seeing me sometimes, she might forget.

Yes, there was plenty to do. I enjoyed the activity so much, after my long period of quietness and solitude. They always said it was good to have a hobby.


	8. Chapter Eight

Friday morning. The whole idea of looking forward to a day without work—I'd quit because of dad—was strange since I don't think I'd ever had more than two days in a week when I'd not had to work. For a moment, after I woke up at 7:00, I just lay in bed, thinking of what I could do with all the spare time. Of course, I'd have to come home almost right away, but there was still time, maybe in the evening, to hang out with some of my friends. I could go and see a movie, maybe, later that night!

My door creaked open, and my father's face peered around the edge of the door. He smiled at me, and I smiled back, wondering when it had last been like this. Usually he had been late to work, and he'd still been asleep every morning that I'd left for school.

"I've made your lunch," he said, holding up a brown paper bag, "I wouldn't want my girl to go to school hungry. And you needn't worry about coming home early. Forget what the doctors said. I have friends at the orchestra. I was careless last time," he had the decency to look ashamed, "I admit that, but this time, if anybody notices that something is wrong, I will go right back to the hospital."

I smiled. "I might want to stay after school." Hoisting myself up on my elbows, I said, "You remember what we were talking about a couple weeks ago? Elysees Academy? I found a tutor to help me get ready for the examinations."

I had expected him to be excited. Instead, his face sort of folded in on itself, almost as if he was displeased. I felt the change in mood and sat up straighter, swinging my legs out to one side of the bed.

"What's wrong, Daddy?" I whispered, "I thought you'd be happy. Remember how much we talked about Elysees?"

He looked up at me with so much…I could hardly describe it…betrayed hurt in his face that it made me feel instantly ashamed. How could I even think of leaving him now? We had talked of it before, and even then it was a tentative arrangement…but now, there was almost no chance of it, even if he said that he was fine. I had just told him that I was willing to leave him alone, even when he was in so much trouble. He pulled himself together, however, and faked a terrible smile.

"Of course, Christine, I'm very happy for you," he said, "I know that you can pass the examination. Study hard, and we will discuss it when I come home. I might be late this evening, though, so spend some time with your friends if you like. Have a good day."

He closed the door and left me sobbing into my quilt. My heart was torn, broken into two parts. I wanted to go to France so badly, I thought I would scream. I wanted to go somewhere, to break away from this endless chain of monotony, of sameness. But at the same time, how could I leave my father? He was the only thing in the way of a family that I had left. Without him, I'd never have any place to call my own. I'd never even have anybody to call my own. I couldn't leave him until he was ready. Hadn't I asked him for the same understanding? I sighed and stood up. If I waited any longer, I would be late for school. With the arms of a robot, I started to get ready for school.

Meg, naturally, noticed something wrong the moment I walked into the building.

"I waited for you, but you were late. What's wrong?" she gasped, "My God, Christine, your face is as white as a ghost's!" She shook me on the shoulder, almost as if she was trying to snap me out of my stupor. "Is your father back in the hospital?"

I had to clamp down on the thought that things might be better that way and reprimand myself for even letting the idea come into my head. "No, Meg, I just didn't sleep well last night, okay? Dad's fine."

She looked at me with the look that she had sometimes. The look that said 'you-are-so-full-of-bull-but-you're-upset-so-I'll-let-it-pass'. She shook her head and offered me part of her bagel. "At least eat something, you'll feel better."

I nibbled on the bread, but it did nothing to either calm the roiling feeling in my stomach or in my mind. In fact, it made me feel like I was going to throw up. As we walked along the hall, I casually let the piece drop into a garbage bin.

"So," Meg said, trying to lighten the conversation, "are you happy that another day's here? You get to see Ra-oul!" she sing-songed the last word and slammed her locker door shut, the echo of the metallic clang echoing in my already throbbing head. She looked at my face and sighed. "Come on, Christine, if you can't tell me, who can you tell?" Suddenly, her body tensed up and her smile widened as she looked down the hall behind me. I turned, knowing what I was about to see, and sure enough, Raoul was coming up the hall behind us. But something was wrong with him, too. He looked pale, as if he had not slept at all either, and as he stormed up towards the two of us, he had to stop and collect himself before he spoke.

"Miss Day, may I speak to you in the classroom, please?"

I nodded my assent, and motioned to Meg. Usually, when I had spoken to him, I'd always brought Meg along as a kind of safety net. This time, though, Raoul stopped her with an almost rude gesture.

"Alone, if you would not mind, Miss Tabin."

Meg, startled, and looking slightly naughtily at me, smiled and nodded. "Certainly, Mr. Chagny. I'm sure that you and Christine have a lot to talk about. I'll see you later, Christine," she whispered to me in an undertone, and, smiling and winking, Meg trotted off down the hall.

Raoul was entirely uncharacteristic this morning. He actually grabbed my wrist in an effort to get me to follow him faster, and I allowed myself to be pulled along simply because I had no other option; I was totally shocked. He pulled me into his empty classroom and checked the clock; we had at least ten minutes until the start of classes. He paced around the room, running one hand through his hair, evidently wondering where to begin saying what he had to say. I waited patiently, but not without a good deal of apprehension. Meg had obviously been expecting a love confession, but his expression was a good deal too troubled and upset to even consider something like that. I felt a dark sense of foreboding, and the troubles that I'd been sensing for the past few days suddenly rained down on me.

My teacher turned towards me with a terrible look. "Christine, this is going to sound odd, but have you ever," he checked himself, and started over, adopting a more gentle tone, almost as if trying to coax a confession out of a child, "Bear with me, Christine. This is very serious; you could be in grave danger." He paced again, hands folded and his expression one of fervent prayer. "Have you ever run across a man named Erik?"

The name was totally unfamiliar to me, especially if he meant a man. I only knew one Eric, and he was my seven-year-old cousin. I shook my head, silently inviting more explanation. He sighed.

"This man would be a good deal older than you, late thirties, perhaps even early forties. He would have dark hair and eyes…and he would be wearing a white or black mask."

An alarm bell shrilled inside my head. Mask…and the mask meant danger…I'd known it all along, hadn't I? And Raoul wanted me to confess to having seen this man, this man who had never done me any harm. How could I be in danger from a man who had only given me a book? After all, in my world, book-givers were always good people. What's more, I thought, anger rising inside of me, I don't quite feel like telling Raoul anything that he feels like asking about. There could be other masked men, after all. Deep down, I knew that I was fooling myself, and toying with something very dangerous, but I did not want to give up my masked man. He was the mystery that I'd been waiting to discover, and even beyond that, something in Raoul's tone denoted harm on the masked man. Without knowing both sides, or even any side to this demand, how could I answer and count on anyone's safety?

I adopted an attitude of careful thought, aware of Raoul's searching glance, and shook my head.

"I've never seen anybody like that around this town. And I usually know, I mean, I work at the only grocery store." I took on an air of naïve innocence. "Well, what's wrong? How could I be in danger from someone I've never seen before?" If a little mockery slipped into my tone, I expected to be forgiven. I had not had a good morning, after all.

Raoul seemed uncomfortable still, even more so, after my lie. He insisted that I meet him after school at his office, and I agreed. Daddy had said that he'd be home late, after all. I had the time.

When I met him in his office (which was really nothing more than a cubicle in the World Language department) he seemed more under control. He offered me coffee from the teacher's lounge, and then escorted me to one of the classrooms that fronted the road, and was brightly illuminated by sun. So illuminated, in fact, that we had to lower some of the shades in order to talk comfortably.

He seemed to be gathering his thoughts, so I decided to tell him what conclusion I had reached during the course of the day.

"M Chagny?" I broke unwillingly into his thoughts. He stared at me confusedly, almost as if wondering why I was there. I had never seen him with such a lack of self-composure. "I wanted to talk to you about the offer you made to tutor me."

At this, his face seemed to relax, and he smiled broadly, the worry lines that prematurely etched and aged his face now fading away. "Absolutely, Christine. Are Saturday mornings still convenient for you? I have already made arrangements with the janitor to let us into one of the spare classrooms, and I have spoken with my parents, trying to find out what information we need this year to prepare for the exam."

I grimaced. He wanted to teach me, and I wanted to learn, but I couldn't do it anymore! "Actually, I wanted to tell you…because my dad is so sick right now, I can't attend the Academy. So getting the tutoring is just…" I trailed off and lowered my gaze, unable to look in his eyes anymore.

Raoul looked at me for a moment, seeing the pain in my eyes and face, and took my hand in a grip so gentle that I didn't even flinch at the contact. His palm was smooth and warm, and I suddenly found myself wishing that he'd hold me, so that maybe his warmth could soothe away some of the pain I felt. But he did not make a move to do that, so I swallowed my disappointment in a silent sigh.

"Even if you are not able to attend, I still believe that you should prepare for and take the test." He placed his other hand soothingly on my shoulder, "After all, if you pass, that is still a very good thing to show your university. The willingness to work hard, even without reward, is admirable. Still," he continued, taking his hands away from me, "this was not what I had intended to speak to you about. But it might be where we begin for today. Christine," he said, "would you like the tutoring? I know that you are going into stage production and dramatic arts, but a knowledge of French would aid you well in that endeavor. Why not let me tutor you?"

I nodded. "I know that that makes sense, but my dad…I don't know…if there's a problem with him, I have to be there for him. I did leave work to do that, after all, even if he doesn't _want_ it." I had to work to keep the bitterness out of my voice. "But maybe, when he gets better, I'll be able to do this."

We were back to the awkward silence again. I thought I remembered Raoul murmuring something about what I had said, but it was spoken in such an undertone that I wasn't really certain. After several minutes, where we both looked down at our hands, Raoul broke the silence.

"Christine," my name was like a melody on his lips, "I care very much about you. As a student and as a young lady," he seemed very awkward, all of a sudden, "and I want do help you achieve the great future that I know you have. Do you remember the question I asked you this morning?"

Well, _that_ was a radical shift in mood! Of course I remembered his question about the masked man. I'd thought about it almost to exclusion of all other things that day. Meg had walked out of the cafeteria without me noticing while I was trying to decide whether or not to tell Raoul the truth about what I knew. I nodded and breathed something in the affirmative, waiting to hear if he had anything more specific to say about the masked man.

"Are you certain that you know of no one fitting the description?" He pressed his question again, searching my face even as I was desperately wracking my brains for an answer. "Are you sure that you have never spoken to or even seen a man like that?"

I decided that an attitude of disbelieving concern would suit best. "Why are you so worried? I told you before that I don't know anyone like that. What is the problem? Who is this man you're so worried about?" I wanted to know so badly that I thought I would strangle the information out of him if he refused to say a word. What kind of danger was I in?

"I…" he trailed off, "I do not know if I should tell you this. Erik is a…bad memory from my past." He sighed and paced, trying to find the words, as I looked on in breathless agony. "Erik murdered my brother."

If I had not met the man himself, I would have thought that my French teacher was a little cracked. As it was, I could finally put the pieces of the puzzle together. This was why Erik had seemed so…different to me. So mysterious, and so powerful. This was where his unspoken strength had come from. Still, what an ungodly coincidence! That the younger brother of the murdered man should come to the same tiny town where the murderer waited.

"Raoul," I said, not noticing my slip-up, "I've never seen anyone like that."

He looked at me, his eyes full of some unreadable emotion. He took my hand again, but this time I wasn't sure if it was for the purpose of comforting me or otherwise. "Christine," he said, his voice soft, "you called me Raoul."

I think that my face spontaneously combusted. At the very least, I felt the flames shoot out. "Oh, I'm so sorry…I really didn't meant to…I'm so sorry!"

His eyes, which I could read now, looked nothing but flattered and hopeful. "It's all right, Christine. I have called you by your first name…"

I shook my head, the earlier drama of the moment now forgotten. "That's different. I'm your student. You're my teacher, for crying out loud! I'm really sorry." Somehow, I didn't think that 'sorry' was going to undo the damage I had done. Something had now been spoken between us as people, not as archetypes, and I looked forward to what he would say with anticipation both excited and terrified.

"Even if you do not need the tutoring," he began, squeezing the hand that he held, "will you at least let me be your friend? I think that with your father the way he is right now, you might have need of one."

He was such a perfect gentleman! And his hand was so warm. I wanted so badly to be hugged, where I could sigh in comfort and security. My father used to hug me all the time, but recently, in the past few months, he'd gotten to be less and less like that. My feet twitched, telling me to take just one more step forward and let him hold me. And I wanted to, so badly.

"How old are you?" the question was out of my mouth before I could consider how rude it was to ask.

He did not seem offended. "Twenty-two."

Five years. My mother had been six years older than my father. Their relationship had always been a strange one to begin with. I looked up into Raoul's eyes then, and found the strength to move forward. Resting my head against his shoulder, I felt all my worries rush to the surface of my mind, and my eyes misted over. I wanted to cry, but when his arms came around me, all of the fears and little worries were purged in the soothing warmth. I sighed and let my eyes close. We stood like that for a long time, and then he drove me home. When he asked if we could go somewhere tomorrow afternoon together, I didn't think twice. Daddy's permission could be asked later. I agreed and smiled before he drove off down the road.

Meg could be proud of me then. I had taken the first step.

Later that night, when my father came home, he apologized for being so curt in the morning. He assured me that he wanted to me accept the tutoring and take the exam. If I got in, he said, he wanted me to go to the academy. I smiled and nodded, saying that my teacher was more than happy to offer the lessons, and that I knew that I could do well on the test. I then went on to tell him that I had a date with someone the next afternoon.

"Oh? Who is he?"

"A new guy at our school." That was easily true enough. "He's older than I am."

"Ah." My father tasted some of the soup that I'd heated up for dinner (I was too tired to cook) and ladled out his own bowl. "Well, that is good for you. I will be going to the studio early tomorrow. I must practice. The state of my performance is shameful. The ensemble will sound terrible with even one out-of-tune violin. My stay in the hospital really interfered with my memorization as well." He glowered, as if all he had to blame was the hospital for forcing him to stay for an unreasonable amount of time. "Just leave a note when you decide to go out and when you plan to be back, all right?"

I nodded to him and took another bite of bread. Of course he'd want to practice more. My father's life revolved around practice and rehearsal. There was nothing, but nothing, that could come before that. Actually, his absence might be best for me, letting me go out with Raoul with no questions asked. There would be a lot of questions, I knew, if he saw whom exactly I was dating (could I say dating?) The word sounded so strange to me. I'd had one boyfriend, and I'd neglected him to the point where he'd dumped me out of sheer frustration. I knew that the rumors he'd spread around the school were enough to stop any other guy from even attempting to ask me out. Oddly enough, I hadn't cared one bit. When I had been with my one and only boyfriend Jeremy, I'd felt as if he was encroaching on my little spare time. Between work, dance, and school, I had little time to myself. And if there is one thing that Christine Day needs, it's time to think and be alone. I am not a social creature by habit. Living with my parents while we toured the United States following the shows made me dependent on them for my amusement and social life. That might not sound healthy, but it was the most wonderful arrangement that I could have wished for. When my mother passed away, I relied on my father. And he filled my sad and lonely hours with such wonderful stories and beautiful songs that I never wished for any other friend. Meg Tabin is probably the closest I have ever come to a best friend. There were other acquaintances that I played with, but true friendship was something that I had never come across yet.

I picked up my bowl and my father's and moved over to the sink. As I washed the dishes, I watched the little orange bottle of prescription pills like a hawk. When dad took one, I breathed a sigh of relief so loud that I hoped he hadn't heard it. When I finished, I left him downstairs, sawing away on his violin, the golden notes soaring around the house and filling it with the old light that it used to have. For a moment, as I walked upstairs, I closed my eyes and was back during those happy years when my mother, her silver throat the perfect accompaniment to father's music, would sing to me each night before I went to bed. Whether it was showtunes or some old Gaelic lullaby (my mother may have been an American singer, but she only ended up that way after majoring in British history—go figure) her voice always echoed cleanly and beautifully around our apartment. It used to make me so sad that I was not a singer. I had hoped, over the years, that her voice would have come to me. But I'd come to terms with that by now. So I wasn't a singer! She wasn't a violinist, like my father, and nor was she a dancer, like me. Together, we made the perfect triangle—the three attributes of the perfect performer. Now, father and I…we were each waiting for the thing that she used to provide. She had been father's accompaniment, and she had been my encouragement.

I wrote a little before I went to bed, but I was very tired. So much had happened that day that I didn't even want to think about it all. There were some things that couldn't be digested right away.

The spring crickets shrilled peacefully outside my window, and even through my closed door, I could hear the sound of my father's violin. All seemed right with the world yet again, but tomorrow, I would have a lot to think about.


	9. Chapter Nine

How quickly the weeks had passed! It seemed but a day or two since I had first seen her, but in actuality, the month of May had sped by, taking with it the first days of June. Since the Connecticut winter had not been very gentle that year, the school year was going to extend until the very end of June, even for seniors. The days were warm and uncomfortable now, and Christine showed less than complete enthusiasm dragging herself out of the door on those muggy mornings. But since her father was spending more time rehearsing, and since she no longer held her after school job, she was taking more time in the library than usual. She was also practicing at her dance studio several days after school. I knew that her end-of-year recital was coming up very shortly, and I was looking forward to purchasing my ticket. For right now, things seemed oddly static. Her father was in a stable state of health, and the only thing I needed to attend to was that fact that she was becoming upsettingly attentive to that French fop, Raoul.

The stupid boy had gone in the face of my wishes and had consented and in fact urged her into tutoring for the summer academy examination. He had also, to my fury, made overtures towards a more personal relationship. I heard their discussion in the classroom; ever since I knew which school she attended, I made certain I knew how to get around unnoticed, and I was glad that her sense had gotten a hold of her before she went out with him. I saw her the following day refuse to go with him. He went away, disappointed but still resolved. I was proud of her, but he would pay for his refusal to listen to reason. My next warning would be something he would not forget.

It was Monday now, the Monday after Raoul had failed to prevail on Christine for a date. The comparative peacefulness of our situations was seeping into me as well; I watched Christine as she went to school in the morning, but the revenge that I had planed on Raoul seemed to be too exhausting to contemplate. I was allowing myself to become careless, and that was how I saw her father that morning.

Each day, I usually only waited to see that Christine was safely on her way to school before I returned home. I only assumed that her father was well and going to work. That morning, I saw differently.

Charles Day was not in good condition when I saw him. He staggered down his driveway and slumped over the hood of his car. I was curious, nothing more, and I crept closer. He was not holding his violin. He did not look as if he was going to work at all that day. He rested there for several minutes before he started up his car and drove off, heading in the opposite direction of his studio. I watched him as he sped off down the road, careening around the corners at a speed that any lucid person would have known to be unsafe. I again wondered at the duplicity of that man; with such a daughter to care for, he would still actively seek his own death? Of course, I was no mind reader, and there could have been many explanations for his actions that morning. I decided to table the information for the moment and attend to the things I needed to do. I'm sure that I would be able to know what I needed to know when the proper time came.

Little did I know that the proper time would be so soon. Christine did not return from school that day at the right time, and while I drove to the school to trace her location, I was almost blind with the anger that I felt. I was certain that this time she had fallen prey to that idiot boy's overtures and was not planning on returning home on time. When I reached the school, however, no matter how hard I looked, she was not to be found. As a matter of fact, Raoul was still there as well. I looked into his window, where he sat, floundering through a pile of tests.

My anger calmed somewhat, but I determined to look next in the library, knowing that she spent many afternoons there. Mrs. Miller greeted me cheerfully as I entered, and I greeted with relief the coolness of the temperature controlled air. I returned some of the volumes I had borrowed, and ascended to my level of the library. Christine sometimes used that room, especially if she had studying to do. I had been scrupulously avoiding being seen by her, but that didn't stop me from watching her as she worked. There was an attic above that room that no one ever went into. I had, of course, made full use of it. This time, though, I walked right into the room.

My heart, the muscle that I had believed to be permanently atrophied, lurched painfully in my chest. She was there. Her head was bent over some papers, and her pencil was frantically working away. Her pre-calculus textbook had obviously given her some problems; it was face down on the floor, several feet away from her. I smiled. I had never felt the same way about math as she obviously did, but I remembered throwing such fits over my penmanship lessons, certainly. I observed her for a few more minutes, in silence. She had not heard me because I had not wanted her to hear me. I wanted so badly for her to look up at me, and smile, and know me, even for who I was. But there were oceans of space between us, oceans of difference. Even now, I stood in the shadow of the doorframe, and she was bathed with afternoon sunlight.

I had memorized every plane of her face, but her curls were always different. They riled up on her head, in solid rebellion to the heat, like a battalion of disobedient soldiers. Each one was always different; it was one of her many little beauties that I loved about her. Her arms curled around in a half-arc around her piles of homework, and the fingers that grasped the pencil were limber and tapered. I sighed silently, still not wanting her to hear me, and I was on the verge of going back downstairs and out to my car, when I heard footsteps, hurried and panicked, ascending the stairs behind me. I was startled into motion, and I glided calmly into the room, holding a scrap of paper in my hand as if I were looking up some book. Christine looked up at me, and indeed she smiled, and looked as if she were about to speak. But the footsteps that had been coming now burst into the room, and the little figure of Mrs. Miller appeared.

"Christine," she panted, the stairs being a long trip for one of her age and stature, "the hospital called. They want to speak to you at once."

Christine asked no questions. Her face turned bloodless white, but she was strong enough to go down with Mrs. Miller. She left everything except her purse on the table, but neither she nor the librarian seemed to notice. I listened to the descending notes of their footfalls, and slowly turned towards the pile of papers she had left. There was nothing for me there. Nothing I could use. And Christine had learned. She no longer took any of her notebooks out of the house with her. Minutes passed as I waited for her return; she must return for her books. And as a matter of fact, she did.

She was taking the stairs two at a time, almost as if she couldn't reach the top fast enough, but when she did, she looked as if she had no idea what she was doing. Her eyes were red, almost as if she had rubbed them hard enough to keep her from crying. But they still glistened, and I found myself unable to keep myself from staring at them, those dark, yet richly warm eyes with the perfectly framing eyebrows, full of tears yet too proud to let them fall.

She moved to the table, sparing not a glance for me, and crushed all her papers, in a fury of impatience, into her bag. She piled her books in her arms and swung her bag onto her back. When she turned around, heading towards the door again, she caught sight of me. I had no time to hide the fact that I had been staring, but I let her know, with all the expression that I could muster into my eyes, that I was sorry for her.

Christine stared back at me, almost as if I had said something tangible to her, and a single tear slipped down her cheek. Her lips parted and trembled, almost as if she wanted to say something, and a wispy sob came out from between them. Her arms too, shivered as if they could no longer hold up the burden of her books. She looked at me, and she sighed. Her right foot slid an inch or two along the faded carpet, and she leaned, ever so slightly, towards me. Then, shaking her head and managing a smile that seemed to say 'I'm all right', she turned and raced down the stairs. When she left, I found that my hand was clenched so hard that it ached when I finally released the muscles. I was also shaking. What emotions had she just then displayed? It seemed as if she had wanted to come closer, to rest her head on my shoulder, and to cry. I sighed, closing my eyes and leaning back against the dark and heavy shelves. Would that she had, I thought, would that she had.

Either way, I thought, as I saw the taxi pull up to the building and roar off in the direction of the highway, I had to make sure that she was all right.

I had infiltrated hospitals before. I only needed to find myself some resident's attire and play the part of an inmate. I could not, unfortunately, simply take a lab coat and play the part of doctor. My…disability…rendered me incapable of that. Well, what must be done must be done. I donned the green garb and walked with equanimity down the halls of the hospital. I hacked into the first computer terminal I found (I have always been particularly adept with computers) and I found that a Charles Day had been admitted to the emergency ward around noon, as the victim of a car accident. The notes underneath his status were not good. He seemed to have suffered a heart attack upon collision, and while it was only a mild one, complications from his multiple fractures and lacerations made it very dangerous. He was being kept in a stable wing at the moment, but that was because there was no more room in the emergency ward. He was being closely monitored. Miss Day was marked down as being a visitor.

However, if Charles Day really were that unstable, she would also be discussing treatment options and, if it were apparent to the doctors that he would not last, she would also be comparing headstone manufacturers. But my diagnostic eyes saw nothing to make me suspect that even a man in ill health would not be able to heal from these injuries. He might never walk again, certainly, and the way his left hand had been crushed into the wheel from the crumpling car frame made it certain that he would never play the violin again. He was only unstable now because the doctors needed to find the right balance of anesthesia.

I glided away from the computer after wiping it free from all traces of my meddling, and turned my steps towards the wing where the man was being kept. A small, yet wickedly wonderful plan was forming in my mind. Charles Day had serious injuries that could result in death. If he did not want to heal, as he had certainly shown that he did not, he might well die as a result of this accident. What if I were to…speed that process along? He would have no knowledge of it of course, but if he were to know, I was certain that he would thank me for the consideration I showed him. He did not want to live, and who was I to disregard the wishes of a dying man?

A quick walk past the doorway of the ward revealed no video cameras. Tsk, tsk. They should really take better care of their patients. Never know when a homicidal maniac with an unhealthy obsession should come walking along.

Of course, I could not move against him today. But, perhaps tomorrow night…after the nurses had left the stable care ward…and there was cover of darkness in the room…one of Mr. Day's support machines would fail…or he would have a severe heart attack, with no one monitoring his pulse…and Christine would be a poor little orphan, with not a friend in the world. Or so she would think. So they all would think. And when she disappeared, the social services would casually forget her, secretly glad to have one fewer child to care for.

I changed clothes and walked back to my car. As I started up, I noticed that my hands were trembling on the wheel. My heart, in fact, my whole being trembled with the anticipation that the next few days would bring.

Still, first things first. Raoul, that irritating boy, was too close to Christine. And he showed no signs of leaving her, despite my first warning. I was filled with enthusiasm and energy now, and I was more than ready to deal with him. Tonight, he would be taken care of. Tomorrow, I should make arrangements with my contacts to have a flight to Paris on a private jet. I could also tell him to make my apartments in the city ready for me…and my guest. There were many things to be prepared, but long ago I had seen to the need of having efficient and quick staff. They all knew me, some to different extents, but I trusted them all, and I trusted them to hold their tongues. I paid them too well to have any disobedience.

The day after next…she would be mine. I could have no more delays.

Raoul's home was deserted. Many of the people who shared his condominium complex were single businessmen and women. They would all be gone for much longer. Raoul, however, I knew would be home. I crept up beneath the window of his living room, where he was having a heated phone conversation with someone. His French was so rapid and troubled that I had to concentrate to understand him. When I finally ascertained that he was speaking with his mother again, and remonstrating her for being so upset with his choice in career, he slammed the phone down and paced around the room for another several minutes, swearing and muttering imprecations against his own flesh and blood. I smiled. Very soon he would have something much more serious to be angry about.

When he muttered something about dinner and stalked off to his kitchenette (which thankfully did not adjoin his living room) I heaved myself inside and concealed myself in one of the many closets that his home seemed to contain. I counted on his aristocratic tendencies to force him out of his home for dinner, and indeed, in a few moments, he stalked back into the living room, mumbling about there being nothing decent to eat in the whole of America. He pulled on his jacket and went out to his car. I waited until he had reached the other end of the street before I left my hiding-place, and I very quickly set to work. Even though I knew that he would take the time (and the money) at a very nice restaurant, I wanted to be back in time to see how Christine was handling her father's new escapade. I also had my staff to contact. I thrived under pressure, and this time was no exception.

I wondered as I worked whether or not Raoul had gotten to see his brother's body before he had been cleaned up by the local constabulary? In accordance with my orders, I had not made one neat cut to the jugular. I knifed the boy up very thoroughly, in order that the men might think that this had been a violence killing by a random serial killer. I had not had the energy to point out to them that a random killing would not take place in a secured home, but I had known that it would not change their opinion. In either case, the body had been very nicely diced. It was not, to me, aesthetically pleasing, but I took a picture of it anyway, as I was in the habit of doing, with a rose beside it, in order to keep an accurate portfolio of my work. I was, after all, an artist, but even an artist has to take the good with the bad.

This was the picture that I had enlarged, to poster size, before I came to the house. I had not accurately measured Raoul's ceiling space, the last time I was there, but my guesstimates are fairly close, when I have to make them. The place I really wanted to hang this was in the little alcove above his bed. The architect of this little shell had probably wanted some sort of artistic bent to his pitiful design, and so he had made the ceiling above the bed a foot higher than anywhere else, certainly feeling that the little alcove (entirely out of place) added shape to his room. It was useless in every way, especially in the way it had been intended, but it was seemed created expressly for me. It would serve my purposes wonderfully.

And indeed, the picture fit! A little spray adhesive (that was almost impossible to loosen) made sure that Raoul would have his brother's face to look at for the rest of his term in that house. Of course, he would not see it until he lay down to sleep. But that was the beauty; it was sure to give him pleasant dreams. For an added touch, I taped a note to the edge of the portrait, just to remind him of how easily his brother's demise could be replicated. Smoothing out all traces of my presence, I left his house and returned to my own. I had been particularly impressed with the vibrant colors of the enhanced picture. What technology could do nowadays!

I saw no sign that Christine had yet returned home, and, as it was getting on in the evening, I decided to place my call to Paris. I needed a good night's sleep in order to prepare for the next evening. And I had been remiss. I needed to plan Miss Day's abduction. Social services would descend upon her like a plague. I needed to be sure that her father's death had no time to reach her before she was gone. That would mean as little time possible between her father's sudden death and her disappearance. It took me at least fifteen minutes, under the best circumstances, to drive from the hospital to her home…

But I was getting ahead of myself. The first thing to do would be to make sure that the jet was ready and waiting for me, and that all I would need would be aboard. My chief of staff, Nadir Khan, would be the one to call.

I had forgotten the time difference between myself and Geneva, where he had made his permanent residence, but if I woke him his voice showed no surprise or even fatigue.

"Sir?"

"Nadir," I said, my voice slowly taking over its old accent of power, "I will need the jet waiting for me with its usual outfit. Midnight tomorrow, is that possible?"

His voice was even, showing no surprise, even though when I had last parted with him, I had told him that it was going to be forever. He had known me since my earliest days as an assassin in Turkey, though, and since it was I who had gotten him ousted from his comfortable position as chief of police, he knew that I would do anything should I become bored enough.

"It will be waiting for you, sir. Nearest airport to your position?"

I was surprised that he was not going to try and talk me out of it. Usually, he was incorruptibly pure, despite all the atrocities that he had carried out in the name of his despotic commander. He was very upset with me each and every time I killed, though those I killed deserved to die, and it was really my only decent livelihood. For some reason, he still too it amiss.

"Yes." I kept my replies likewise short. "I will also need the apartments in Paris opened up, with rooms prepared for a…" I hesitated over the word, knowing how Nadir would take it, "guest. Make sure that the doors lock only from the outside."

But if I had been in the mood for any difficulties, he was not going to supply them.

"Very well, sir, I'll wake the staff in Paris. How many rooms for your guest?"

"Bedroom and bathroom. No telephones."

By this, I knew that he understood it was to be an unwilling guest.

"Should I tell the staff to remain?"

"No. Stock the apartment but clear it out. I will wish to be alone. And Nadir?"

"Sir?"

"Have the organ tuned."

He hung up, knowing that our business was finished. Shrugging off the sense that Nadir had washed his hands of me, I went downstairs to my organ. There would be enough time to gather what his motives and emotions were on the flight to Paris. Right now, I imagined, checking my watch, the little de Chagny boy would be coming home, tired after his long day and frustrations over his dinner. As a matter of fact, he might want to go lay down instead of watching TV or reading a book. Right now, he might be staring at his ceiling, not realizing what is actually covering it until his poor tired brain clicks in.

I struck a chord on my organ, so dreadful to hear that if I had not played it a dozen times before I might have covered my ears in shock.

He must be reading my letter right now, I thought, moving into one of the many songs I had composed upon thinking of Phillippe's death. I wonder if he knows that I mean every sentiment?

I stopped playing, so abruptly that the silence echoed into the cavernous underground, where the darkness waited, cringing, to hear another sound from my organ.

"Dear Mr. Chagny," I whispered, repeating the words of my note, "I wondered, quite out of a friendly impulse, whether you wanted greatly to see your brother again. Since I, unfortunately, only knew him in a professional context, this is the only picture that I happened to have on me. Still, I know that you will remember him as he was, and not as he is. I only care to caution you sir, to remember my earlier warning. _The Comte's fate is easily duplicated_."

Signed with a rose. I sighed in satisfaction. I really should thank the boy. He had given me the chance to express myself in such new ways! I really felt that I had never been this artistic before. I might have to send him a postcard, from Paris, from both myself and Christine, thanking him for his inspiration.

I played well into the night, thinking all the while of how to orchestrate Miss Day's disappearance. And then, when the sun crept up, I rested my tired fingers and my aching mind. I was filled with euphoria though. Just a few more hours. And then the real work would begin.


	10. Chapter Ten

My head was so heavy, and in so much pain, that the noise of the highway and the rattling parts of the taxi couldn't even get to my brain. I clutched the handle of my bag where it crossed over my chest as if it were a lifeline, and I refused to let go of it. It held information about the medicines that my father was going to be taking, and my options should…

I couldn't even think about that. The little axe murderer in my head was chopping away, and I think he'd just hurt something sensitive. I felt my eyes misting over, and I dashed the tears impatiently away. Just a few more minutes, and I'd be home. I didn't quite feel like collapsing into a tear-stained mess in front of the burly taxi-driver who was driving. I was so tired that I just wanted to make it home dry-eyed and awake.

The car lurched as we edged off the highway and onto the quiet main street. It was sometime past 9:00 in the evening, and I was vaguely aware of being starving. It seemed odd to want to eat at this moment in time, though. I had been so nauseated in the hospital, not only by the sight of my father but the antiseptic stench of the hospital that food was repulsive to me. My mind screamed against it, but my body craved it beyond all reason. It was an odd state to be in.

We pulled over to my driveway, and I got out, thanking the man and paying my exorbitant fair. As I entered my house, I was conscious of the little sounds there, such as the sound of the wind blowing through the windows that had been left open, and cars driving down the road behind me. I felt like collapsing right there, but I knew that I had to get something in me. I filled a glass of water and popped something in a Tupperware into the microwave. The rich scent of Italian food filled the house, and my eyes clouded over again. I could remember the evening when we'd eaten that, and I finally let myself go. The only thing that I could reach to staunch my tears was a paper towel, so, for the next ten minutes, I sobbed and blew my nose into it, until, when I finally finished, the thing was so wet that it came apart in my hands. I sighed in disgust, the tears over and the anger kicking in, and I tossed it away, pulling the container out of the microwave and stuffing pasta into my mouth.

When I'd finished eating, I called the school's attendance office. Of course, everyone was long gone, but I left a message on the machine saying that I would not be in school the following day. If they thought that I shouldn't get a day off because I and not a legal guardian had called me out, I was past caring. I could deal with an unexcused absence.

I was tired, so tired that I thought I could just lean against the counter and fall asleep standing up, but I didn't want to, knowing that I would just see him again, with the tube down his throat and the machines slowly marking the beating of his heart…

I shuddered. It was something out of a horror story, and I refused to let it just rattle around in my skull. Going into the living room, I turned on the TV and tried to find a movie to watch. Unfortunately, Monday evening programming had always been dry, and tonight was no exception. I thought of my movies, but they were all the way upstairs, and I was so tired, I knew I'd never make it up there…

…when I woke up again, it was eleven that night. Someone was pounding on my door. I felt a momentary jerk of fear in my heart. Who could be here at this time at night? I approached the door cautiously, and looked through the window at the side. When I saw who it was, I yanked the door open and stared at him in absolute wonder.

"M Chagny?" I gasped, stepping backwards. He took that motion as an invitation, came in, slammed the door behind him and locked it. I noticed that his appearance was remarkably disheveled, and that he clutched two pieces of paper in his hands, almost as if he wanted to tear them to shreds. "What's wrong?"

He stared at me, and his eyes filled me with a cold sense of dread. This was about Erik, I knew. I was put in mind so strongly of last Friday, when he'd spoken to me about that man. I was sure that only Erik could terrify and infuriate him like this. His eyes however, now held a sneaking sort of suspicion, as if he wanted to gauge my reaction to whatever he had to say. But he took hold of himself, remembering that he was first, and foremost, a gentleman.

"I am very sorry to intrude on you like this, Christine," he said, "but I believe that you are in very great danger."

It was the same tune that he had sung several days ago, but his voice was more urgent now.

"From Erik?" I gasped out the name as if I too were afraid of it, but I was possessed with too much curiosity to be really terrified. Maybe he heard this edge in my voice, for he looked at me with an expression of even greater suspicion.

"Yes," he said shortly. "He has left me these notes. Would you be so kind as to read them?"

I took them from his hands and quickly swept my eyes over them. If I had been suspecting any kind of practical joke from Raoul, all thoughts of this were quickly swept away. Cold chills ran down my spine. Again, if I had not come face to face with this man, if I hadn't looked into his eyes…

He had killed Raoul's brother. And now, for some reason, he wanted Raoul away from me…

Apparently, the shock in my face was enough to convince him that I was completely unaware of Erik and the threat that he posed. Either way, he relaxed (if you could call him relaxed) and spoke again.

"I suppose you really don't know him, do you?" he only waited long enough for me to give a shocked head shake. "I told you he murdered my brother?" Again, all I could manage was to shake my head.

"What does this mean?" I whispered, my voice trembling from excitement and terror. "What does he want with me?"

_Of all people, why me?_

"Erik is…" Raoul stopped to consider his words, "insane, to say the very least. He is an assassin, a murderer for hire. I know that he was hired by someone much higher up, in a foreign government, to kill my brother. And I had heard, when I was investigating, that the name of Erik is well known in other countries." He took my hand, as if he felt me to be in need of some kind of comfort. I barely felt the contact of his skin with mine. "Christine, I don't think it's safe for you to stay alone."

My belligerent nature kicked in. "I'm not alone…" I began to deny, but he interrupted me.

"Meg Tabin called me and told me about your father. I am sorry for you."

I was going to kill her. When I'd call her to tell her, I was panicking in the library and I wanted someone else to know so that she could at least think and pray for me. I hadn't wanted her to pass along the information!

Unfortunately, even though Raoul probably made sense at this point, I was angry. And when I was angry I did stupid things.

"You don't have to worry about me, M Chagny," why I kept referring to him as 'monsieur', I had no idea, "but I am quite capable of taking care of myself. I'm sure your 'Erik' knows that kidnapping is illegal in the United States?" I knew that I was being ridiculous, but I could hardly stop myself, "Well then. I will be fine."

He stared at me the way one might stare at a very presumptuous stranger. It was obvious that he considered me to be completely incomprehensible. But I had made my stand now, and I was not going to budge. _Why_ I was making this stand was something that didn't occur to me, but I knew that I couldn't change my mind now.

"Christine," he tried again, patiently, "I do not know what Erik wants from you. But I know that he means some harm to you. Do not ask me to tell you why. But having had personal contact with him, I know that you are in some danger."

I turned away from him so he couldn't see the look on my face. I was frightened now, and that was what he had intended, but at the same time, I couldn't help but think that this Erik meant no harm to me. He'd been nothing but kind when we'd met, and I didn't even know if this man and the one Raoul was speaking of were even the same. Of course, deep down, I knew they were. But at the moment, I was in no mood to budge on guesses. Had God himself come down to tell me that I was in danger from Erik, I'm not sure I would have reacted right away. I heard Raoul sigh behind me.

"If you will not believe me Christine, in this regard," he said, solemnly, "I still don't think you should stay in your house by yourself. I would hardly think that your father would want it either. I offer my own home for you to stay in while you wait for him to recover. I have an extra bedroom, and I would be more than happy to drive you to the hospital whenever you would like to go."

I felt the kindness of his offer, and I also felt the melting of a little of my pride and a lot of my reserve. I turned to him with a small smile.

"Thank you, Raoul. But you've got to understand that it isn't in my nature to accept that kind of help."

"Christine," his eyes bored into mine, "as a favor to a friend?"

How could I resist his obvious concern? "I…I'll think about it."

He nodded, evidently satisfied. "Will you be at school tomorrow?"

I shook my head. "I don't think I could manage."

"Then, might I come to your house after school for your decision?"

I saw no reason to see why not. I intended to go to the hospital the next morning, but I should be back before three. "All right. But I don't think I will."

He sighed, folding the letters back up into his hand. "Then I will see you here tomorrow after school. Sleep well Christine, and I am sorry to have woken you." The door shut behind him with startling finality. I flinched, almost as if waking out of a dream.

I wandered upstairs, not bothering to turn on any lights, and puzzled over what had just happened. My life had gone from 'normal' to 'sitcom' in such a short span of days that the change had left me reeling. I realized that I had forgotten to ask him several sensible questions, questions that would have occurred to me if I'd actually been thinking clearly. Questions like "why can't you tell the police," or "why exactly would a paid assassin be living in _my_ town," had gone unasked. Why would Erik be after me? Unless my parents had had more extra-curricular activities than I'd known about (i.e. secret agents) there could be no reason for a European government to want me dead.

I lay down on my bed and pulled the covers up under my chin, feeling oddly out-of-control, just like a child again. This whole situation was screwing with my brain, and I was so glad that I didn't have to go anywhere for the whole of tomorrow. Maybe I wouldn't visit the hospital again. The doctors had warned me that I had to take care of myself. There was no point in me exhausting myself, now was there? Maybe I'd just sleep late and head to the library in the morning to catch up on a little 'me' time. I smiled and rolled over. That sounded good.

It must have been eleven when I woke the next morning, after a night full of strange dreams. I stared at the ceiling for a few moments, reliving the same dream I had in the few moments before I woke.

It had been very dark, where I had been. Contrary to most of my usual dreams, I could see or sense nothing of my surroundings. I felt suspended in space, alone…and it was so quiet that I felt like nothing more than a stone, or a pillar, solid and yet silent. There was no one there, but I felt no loneliness. In fact, had the voice not broken into my dreams, I might not have assumed it was a dream at all.

I had rested, very quietly, in this state of nonexistence for quite some time. And yet, that time may have been hours or minutes, I had no sense of it. And then…oh! That voice!

I had never heard such a wonderful male voice. It was strong, and yet soft, quiet, and yet…it held the promise of being louder than thunder! I felt my stony limbs soften at the accents of his voice, even though I could not distinguish a single word. A beautiful rhythm and music pervaded every moment in which he spoke, and I felt my arms reaching up to it, as if it were a light in the darkness.

The voice approached, talking…and yet the talking was so close to singing that I wanted to start dancing. And then…it was gone. I heard a much clearer, and unfortunately less lyrical voice talking. The words were still muffled, but they were much more clear than I had heard from the other voice. I wanted now, very badly, to hear what they were saying, but there was nothing familiar in either of the voices or in the words.

The dream ended as quietly as it had begun, with both the voices, which had been in argument, retreating into the distance.

It was so odd! It was almost as if my mind had placed the two men who had been so lately in my life a voice, but no substance, and had put them into strife and opposition together. And I was nothing more than a silent observer, able to do nothing without the one voice to bring me to life. But I did not think the voice that had made me able to move was the voice of Raoul. I puzzled over that for a few minutes while I lay in bed. I knew there was some significance to it, but a block lay in front of me, and I just could not see it yet. I was terrified that something enormous would happen before I could find the importance of it. Things seemed in such a way.

But, with a return of my old energy, I heaved myself out of bed and went downstairs to check the answering machine. The doctors had called me to tell me that my father was in good, stable condition, and they were again advising me to get some rest and take care of myself before I worried about him. They told me what visiting hours were, telling me that I should have no need to come during any other time, but that they also had some paperwork to have me fill out and look over.

I went upstairs again to shower and take care of some other things. My room had gotten to a state where it was approaching the looks of being a pigsty. I had to clean something, in order to straighten up a path between the door and the bed. By the time I was finished with this, it was approaching noon, and after I ate lunch, I went to the library.

There was so much peace there for me! It had been the one place in the whole town that reminded me of the city from which I had come. Founded several hundred years ago, the library housed a very good collection of old books. I loved it. And since my town was not one that cared too much for books, I was often alone in whichever room I chose. And recently, I had been using _his_ room more often. I thought of it as his room, as much as I thought of it as _my_ library. It was the way I had first seen him in the room, like an emperor on his throne.

But it was by far the most quiet of the rooms. There was almost no sound to reach me from the road, and none of the librarians ever came up to this room. Usually, no one ever borrowed books from this section either. It was the one place that I had found outside my home to be perfect for studying. I felt my heart beat faster as I walked up the stairs…what would I do if _he_ happened to be there? Especially now that I knew him for what he was? Would I look him in the eyes? He would certainly know that I knew then.

I hesitated just below the level where anyone in the room would see the top of my head; and then I took my courage in my hands and charged right up.

I saw him! After all my fears and hopes, I didn't think that he would actually be there. I had some odd idea of a shadow evaporating, a phantom disappearing, as I walked into the room, but I did not expect a flesh-and-blood man.

He was standing in the corner of the room, and for a moment, I let my eyes just wander over him. His trousers were gray, expensive, and very well shaped for him. I refused to allow my eyes to rest on his bottom, but the temptation was very hard to resist. He was wearing a gray sweater, odd for this time of year, and his shoes were plain and black. His dark brown hair was thick and rich, smoothed back from the top of his head, it was perfectly clipped to hang just below his ears. I knew the moment he turned around, I would be drawn to his beautiful eyes, those shockingly green eyes. I waited, leaning against the doorjamb, for a moment, while I considered what in the world I was going to say. The idea of just turning around and walking back down the stairs didn't even occur to me.

"I read the book."

A disembodied voice would have shocked me, I know. But he took it in stride. With one graceful move, he turned to face me, and the smile on his face was striking. I had only seen him smirk before, but the way his face looked with a smile was absolutely unbelievable. Just the strength of it was enough to warm me from the top of my head to the tips of my toes, and I smiled back.

Funny how he knew exactly who I was and to what I was referring without any clarifications necessary.

"I hope you enjoyed it as much as I knew you would."

I recognized his voice. Immediately. And it was so shocking to me that I could hardly speak. He was the singer from my dream. I felt that if I let myself go to that voice, I would never bring my head back to the surface of the wonderful ocean that I would drown in.

But I knew enough to know that he would consider silence odd. "I did. Thank you so much for it. It was particularly useful for what I was writing too." I wanted to bite my tongue. I _never_ mentioned my writing to other people! What possessed me to even hint at it?

He seemed to notice that I was very upset at what I had just said, and he merely acknowledged what I said with a slight inclination of his head.

"I hope it answered all your questions concerning the staging and writing of operas? As well as their performance?"

I stared at him in wonder, barely giving myself the time to school my countenance. Was he a mind-reader? It seemed that there was nothing that lay beyond his ability to see. I smiled, though, for his eyes were so kind that I felt no qualms about giving away my secrets. I met his eyes and smiled.

"It was very useful." I was sorry to have nothing to say but a repetition.

For a while, I simply looked at his face. It was so odd, that with his mask, I still thought of him as having a face. For the first time since I had met him, I was very curious as to what lay beneath his mask, and I was possessed with a powerful curiosity. I had been content before to just listen to him, and think of him, but now…all of a sudden, looking upon that blank white shell, I wanted to know, morbidly, what was worth concealing.

I was so preoccupied with his visage that I bypassed his eyes entirely. But during the time I was looking at his mask, his eyes were fixed on my face. I might have been nervous at this scrupulous examination, but somehow, I felt that his looks were filled with more approbation than criticism. In fact, I felt calmer under his eyes than I felt under anyone else's. And yet, I remembered the feeling of unease when I had met with him before. I recalled feeling in emotional turmoil after speaking to him.

A sudden move on his part jolted me out of my thoughts. He replaced his book on the shelves and drew out another. With not another word, he walked out of the room and down the stairs. I only caught his eyes at the last moment, and I was overwhelmed by the look I saw in them. The kindness was there, yes, but it was mixed with…with…I couldn't even say.

I went home very soon after that. When I got home, I threw some clothes into my suitcase and waited anxiously for three. When Raoul came, I went with him eagerly.

I watched the road behind me surreptitiously as we drove away. I half expected to see the black car following us, but if he had followed me home, he must have left me behind. I had been so convinced of his goodness in the library, and now…I was terrified. I was suddenly in mind of all the things that Raoul had said of him. Even though I could believe them, and even though I had to believe them, something in me still rebelled. I was afraid, and yet, I was still curious. Dangerously curious.

Raoul's home was comfortable and clean, as far away from my little country cottage as I was used to being. I unpacked in his very…white…spare room, and spent the rest of the night in warm conversation with him. We had a good deal that we were able to talk about, as we shared a lot of interests. He talked about Paris, and I described New York. I felt nothing but peace with him, and that night, I slept well. The next day, he drove me to school.

I thought that Meg was going to faint.


	11. Chapter Eleven

Once upon a time, there was a little girl named Christine Day. And what Christine wanted, more than anything else, was to live a famous, yet safe, and normal life. What Christine Day had was ambition. She thought that this was going to give her what she wanted. But what she did not _know_ that she had was this: a guardian angel. This Angel, of heaven and hell, of heaven and earth rather, preferred to remain unknown. But what this Angel would do for her was limitless.

I smiled as I loaded my equipment into my car. Who was he to compare himself to an angel? Though, with his intimate acquaintance with heaven, he could not help but assume that an angel was nothing special or beautiful indeed. Willing toadies to a vicious, careless, omnipotent God. I was better than the angels; at least I had more influence.

But either way, a guardian angel is still a romantic concept, and one that she, devout Catholic that she is, chooses to cling faithfully to.

The evening was coming on, as slowly as it ever did in Connecticut. It was halfway through June, and the evening was as breathlessly humid as the interior of an oven. I placed the last thing I would need in the trunk of my car, and checked my watch. 7:47. I was right on time.

With the professional detachment and methodical motions that always accompanied me before an operation, I ran over my procedure for the night. Charles Day was being kept in the stable wing of the hospital, which, luckily, was on the other side of the building from the emergency wing (the only place besides the psych ward where doctors would be likely to patrol the corridors) and facing away from the road. It was also located right near a loading platform, which meant that I was entirely free to break one of the chains on the fences and have a perfect access route. I would find some place to conceal myself—residents' recreation rooms were perfect for this, since they always had sizeable coat closets and no one to use them—and I would wait until the hospital shut down for the night. Then, with cover of darkness, I would go to Charles Day's room, and…

Well, the fluid that I had prepared to go into his IV line had three benefits:

It was practically untraceable. Forensics experts would have to be looking for the compound specifically, and once the fluid had gone into Day's body, it would leave no residue in the bag.

It caused a completely natural-looking heart attack. Mr. Day's heart was on the fritz, the doctors would accept a relapse. Regrettable, unfortunately, but not unheard of.

It was 100 lethal.

He would insert his compound into Day's IV, and be out before anyone knew he had even been in. Of all the operations he had performed in his day, this was by far one of the less complicated. If there had been security cameras to dodge, well, that would have been a different matter.

But this was an old hospital, in a depressed city. It could barely scramble itself up to code as it was, and somewhere, someone had passed money along to make sure that expensive security cameras were overlooked in the inspections. Things like that not only happened, but they were a lot more common than most people ever assumed.

I started the car and took the back roads to the hospital. I was completely confident that no one would find me, but one could never be too careful. When I pulled up in the abandoned parking lot across the street from the loading bay of the hospital, I resisted the urge to phone Christine's house and verify that she was where she was supposed to be. I assumed that by the time I had gotten back, at around midnight (I wanted to wait until I was certain all hospital personnel had gone home) that she would be asleep. Of course, there were always the variables that I had been unable to account for; perhaps she would be sleeping over at a friend's house, or perhaps she would still be awake. But neither situation had any sizeable disasters attending them, so I had let them slide for the moment.

I checked my watch again, and pulled the equipment from my trunk. A crowbar (it was doubtful I would need that much force), my lock pick kit (never leave home without it), the syringe of compound, which I tucked carefully into my breast pocket, and, as always, gloves.

The chain on the fence outside the loading dock was as flimsy and rusted I knew it would be. With just a twist of the crowbar, the tired old metal shattered and the gate gaped stupidly open. I tossed the crowbar, which I had made sure to be as old as its surroundings, into a pile of sheet metal and rusty tools that rested against the chain-link fence separating the parking lot from the hospital. The next obstacle that faced me was no greater; the door next to the great portcullis of the loading bay was heavy metal, but locked only simply with a key padlock. It was easy enough to pick, and then I was into the building. The lights were still bright, but I knew from the silence in the halls that most of the doctors were gone, and the nurses had only a few more rounds to perform before they too left for the night. I took the stairs to the second floor, since I did not trust the elevator, and right off to the left as I quitted the stairwell was a brightly lit, and completely deserted recreation room. The coat closet was empty, with more than enough room for me to completely disappear into the shadows.

The face of my clock read 8:57. It took quite a while to reach the hospital on back roads, and unfortunately, that was the way I would have to leave as well. I would wait, crouched in this closet, until 10:00. Since 'lights out' was most definitely earlier, I might even have the chance to make my move early. I did not want Nadir to be waiting with my jet on that little airstrip for long, since that would most assuredly raise suspicions. However, I still did not have many worries on that head. The airstrip was in this city, and had been nearly abandoned by government negligence for several long and damaging years. I was reluctant to let Nadir land my jet there, but I knew that my pilot was skillful and could certainly avoid a few potholes.

As I sat there in the darkness, the lights flickered out. I was surprised. Nine was certainly an early lights out, but I was not grumbling. Sizeable as this closet might have been, it was still uncomfortable sitting space for a grown man, especially one curled up in the corner like this. I heard the nurses walking by in the hall outside, chatting and laughing with the relief of another day's shift done. I waited for them to go down the stairs—they did not trust the elevator either, it seemed—and I left the room.

There was one nurse left in the visitors' kiosk, but she was deeply engrossed in charts and patients' records. I drifted across the hall, hidden well in the shadows, and went into room #42, where the name 'Charles Day' had been inked in on a white board that served as a roster.

The room was so silent that it took me a moment to register that they were no longer monitoring the function of his heart. That seemed foolhardy for a moment, but then I realized again what a blessing it was to work in an under funded hospital. I had been ready to race against the nurses' vigilance, but now it was going to be a piece of cake.

Thankfully he was still hooked to an IV, or my plan would have hit a pothole. I was certain that an autopsy would reveal a hole near one of the arteries from the syringe, which would definitely lead to a foul play investigation. But, there was nothing that stood in the way of my revenge. For revenge _was_ what I was after, even though I did love Christine enough to kill for her. But this was exquisite, the chance to bring vengeance down onto a negligent parent. A parent so overwhelmed by grief and anger that they sought to take their own lives, when they refused to realize that their lives were not their own to take. Charles Day, as devout a Catholic as he had raised his daughter to be, should have remembered that suicides were granted no place in the kingdom of heaven. But, moreover, he should have realized that suicide was no choice because he had a daughter depending on him. I felt my uncontrollable fury well up in me, and if I had not had the experience of controlling it, I knew that I would have stabbed him to a bloody pulp right then and there. He had _Christine_ to care for! My mother…

My mother was understandable. She had had _me_.

But Christine,_ Christine_! Who could abandon loveliness and goodness itself?

I moved up beside him, any sorrow or pity I might have felt for him entirely done away with in the face of my complete loathing, and injected the syringe with professional accuracy into the IV bag. The hole was small enough to leak no fluid, and I watched as the satisfying spiral of clear liquid was absorbed into this traitor's system. I watched as the struggles began, as he tried to make his heart start beating again. I watched in cruel omnipotence as the trickle of blood from a bitten tongue leaked from the corners of his locked jaw. I swear, I was so enthusiastic that I could almost hear the slowing beats of his heart. And then, there was absolute silence. Glorious silence. The silence of the grave.

As I looked at the body, I felt only satisfaction, both for myself and for Christine. Oh, if only I could soften the pain of her father's passing with a look at his face right now. The eyes, so wide, so expressive of agony and guilt, the hands, so white from their tension and from no heart to pump the blood to them. The beauty of a murder was timeless, and I knew, then and forever, that I would never tire of it. There was something so artistic about death by poison, even though it was not my favored method of execution.

I was filled with the glorious euphoria of power, of the penultimate power…the power of death. Now I could look forward to having the ultimate power. The power of life. I could have her now, I could take her and make her grow, make her strong and give her exactly what she wanted. And she…she in return, could grant me that same power. For so long I had thought myself to be only strong in the power of death. Perhaps, she could give me a taste of life.

These musings cleared my head remarkably quickly, and I felt the danger of my situation. Even nurses made rounds of the corridors now and then, and here I was, standing right next to my victim. I had things to do.

Quickly then, I laid the freshly cut rose beside him, and snapped the picture, hopeful that the swift glare of the flash would go unnoticed. Then, slipping the rose into the vase on the next patient's bedside table, I made my way back to my car. My watch read 9:18.

It was nearly an hour later before I reached her home, and at first I was very encouraged by the fact that I didn't see a single light. I took the chloroform that I kept in my glove compartment and dashed a liberal amount onto my handkerchief, at the same time making sure that no drops could fall out. I wanted it to seem as if Christine had, for whatever reason, jumped ship. Her car was in the driveway, and I had already arranged for some of my American contacts to come and haul the car away in the wee hours of the morning. I would take care of her home, removing the proper amount of clothing, etc.

The door was locked, but that was nothing I could not overcome, and approximately three seconds later I was back in her home. I remembered where the creaking stairs were, and I was able to come almost silently to her bedroom door, which stood ajar, allowing for a draft to breathe through the upper halls. But her bed was empty. This was the outcome I had dreaded, and I swore silently, resisting the urge to punch a hole through something. I walked down the hallway, making sure that she was not to be found in either the bathroom or the other bedroom. No luck. And, from the looks of things in her room, she had made the decision to leave very quickly. Clothes were hanging off the edges of her drawers in the very haphazard way that I would have tried to duplicate. I decided not to change anything while I was there, but just as I was about to leave, the cover of her most current journal caught my eye. It was obvious that she had meant to bring it, but the thing had fallen off the edge of her bed and now lay partially concealed. I fished it out from the wreckage under her bed, and flipped to the most recent entry, which was dated yesterday.

She described her decision not to go to school, and her visit to the library, as well as her impressions about me—very revealing—and then she quickly went on to describe, in a very shaky hand, what she was going to do afterwards.

_I think I'll go crazy if I stay by myself. Raoul has told me…Raoul has told me, not only the name of my guardian, but also who he is. I didn't want to write it down, because I didn't want to think it was true. But it all makes sense, and I can't ignore that! I learned about it yesterday, during his midnight visit, and the fact that he might be a murderer never seemed more apparent to me than it does today. I've never been this scared before in my life. I don't think I can stay here by myself anymore, which is why I was so glad that Raoul offered me a room in his apartment. He was the one who convinced me that I shouldn't stay here, and I need to pack if I'm going to be ready for him to pick me up at 3._

I had to remind myself very quickly not to be angry with her. She was the victim in all of this, and that was partially my fault. What was the poor girl to think, after all? But that boy, that wretched, interfering boy!

I wondered if, when I went to his home, if I would have enough time and privacy to kill him. I felt my fingers twitch with a familiar, murderous urge. The rage I had felt at Mr. Day was nothing to the fury I felt towards de Chagny. The emotion boiled just on the verge of uncontrollable, its burning poison forcing its way agonizingly through my bloodstream. And at the same time as my anger grew, so did my original resolve.

Raoul would die. He would die horribly and painfully, and at great length. However, the mental torture that I would put him through would be worse than any physical torture thereafter. He would know where I had taken Christine, since he knew of my many holdings in Paris, and I would lead him a merry chase, making him believe that I had only kidnapped her to torture him. If he were really as infatuated with her as I thought he was, then he would be in agony by the time that I finally made an end to his meddlesome life.

However, first things had to come first. Miss Day, _my_ Christine, was in _his_ home.

The guest room that she was staying in was a small room across from the main bedroom, connected by a small hallway. It had no windows and was far from the front door. The closest entrance was, really, Raoul's bedroom window. My heart beat with murderous anticipation, but I quieted it. I would need to be in possession of all my faculties if I was going to pull this off without having to kill Raoul in the process. That would be a shame, especially at this point in the game. But I was confident. I had once spirited away a Turkish minister from under the noses of every single one of his advisors, and this, though far less coordinated, could hardly be more difficult.

His neighborhood was completely quiet by the time I reached it, sometime around quarter to eleven. There were no lights on in any of the houses, and the only illumination was from the glaring orange street lamps on either corner of his road. Raoul's block of houses, set slightly further back along the road than the others, was partially in shadow. I parked on an adjacent street and walked to the back of his home, where de Chagny, true Frenchman that he was, slept with his window wide open. Ordinarily, I would have been able to jump over the sill easily, but this time, since I knew that I would be carrying a body with me on the way back, I brought along a small stepstool.

The innocent boy was sound asleep, and I only made a small detour to check and see whether or not his brother still kept him company. Raoul had made a valiant effort to peel the picture up from the ceiling, I saw, but he'd only managed to shred part of the face off in the process. I saw supplies for wallpapering stacked in the corner of his room and knew that I would have to leave an extra picture somewhere. But perhaps later.

In three steps I was across the hall and staring down at my angel.

I had seen her smiling with sarcastic humor, with a tiny dimple laughing on the side of her mouth. I had seen her eyes both grateful and terribly sad. But she was never more beautiful than when she was sleeping.

Her brown curls were recklessly strewn across the pillow, dark stains against the white pillowcases. Her arms were thrown above her head, and her face rested in the crook of one of her elbows. One of her legs drooped over the edge of the bed, and her left hand was clenched in a fist around the end of her pillow. I can't remember having ever seen a more active sleeper. Once more, my lips twitched, and I wanted to laugh.

The way her face was positioned made it difficult for me to wedge the chloroformed handkerchief over her nose and mouth, but I simply turned her face so that it was gently upturned towards me, and then felt her go limp in my hands. I knew that she would not wake up.

Gently, gently, almost as if she were a porcelain doll, I picked her up, resting one arm on her back and shoulders and the other under her knees. I thanked Raoul then for having a new home, because I did not have to worry about the floor creaking as I carried her into his room. He did not stir as I carried her out of his house, right through his bedroom window.

The night was so peaceful, so still, that I almost wanted to just walk with her, like this, helpless in my arms. Her weight seemed inconsequential to me, and the way that her head rested on my shoulder drove me wild with repressed feeling. I could not believe that at long last, she was mine! The joy that surged through me at this realization was almost too much to believe. At long last, I held the only woman I had ever wanted, the only one I had ever been waiting for, right here in my arms. I knew that there was a long road ahead of me, first winning her trust and then winning her love, but for right now, everything was perfect.

I looked back towards de Chagny's house as I walked towards my car, debating the resolve I had made. Did he really deserve to die? I had Christine, after all, and all his annoyances had meant nothing, in the end. Why did I want to make him come after me, and put myself in the position of prey after finally having found what I needed for ultimate peace?

I was, for thirty seconds, actually on the verge of calling a peace treaty between myself and de Chagny.

And then I realized, where would be the fun in that?

It was nearly half past eleven when I left his house, and I took the highway to the airport, where, as I predicted, Nadir had ordered the jet a little bit early. It was waiting for me when I drove up. One of my attendants took my car keys and was given the job of selling my house in America and making sure that any evidence was cleaned up. I placed Christine in one of the jet's cabins, and injected her with a sedative, just enough to keep her unconscious for another 24 hours. That would give me plenty of time to verify that her rooms in Paris were safe and secure.

I was already relaxing with a glass of brandy while the pilot was preparing for takeoff when I realized that one crucial thing was lacking. I felt anger boil in me again, for I wondered how he would dare to do this?

"Where is Nadir?" I growled to the steward who attended me. "Did he not see fit to join us here?"

The man quaked in his boots, even though he tried desperately to hide it. "Mr. Khan was feeling unwell, sir, when we were departing. He believes that he has the flu."

"In June?" I did not buy that excuse at all. Nadir was doing this to show his disapproval. "Do you think, _sir_, that one is likely to contract the flu during the summer?"

"M-Mr. Khan wanted me to inform you, sir," he stuttered, "that he would join you at your Parisian apartments."

I realized that it was futile to take out my anger at him. He obviously knew nothing about what Nadir was doing, so I decided to let it drop.

"Tell the pilot that we are to be off the ground at the earliest opportunity."

The man nodded and practically fled to the front cabin.

I was aggravated, to say the least. Ordinarily, Nadir would have been the one to take care of the estate that I had left behind. I usually trusted only him with that. In fact, I had wanted him to do that in this case because, quite frankly, I had not wanted him in my way in Paris.

Nadir Khan had had the unfortunate benefit of saving my life, not once but on several occasions. It was in this memory alone that I allowed him to work for me, and to have the amount of freedom in his speech that I denied the rest of my staff. I would have to modify my memory though, if he angered me here.

Nadir would do well to remember I owed allegiance to no one.


	12. Chapter Twelve

I could never remember having ever been more relaxed. I was floating on a hazy, warm cloud, a very soft cloud, incidentally, and I had little to no desire to wake up. School was so far from my mind that it never occurred to me that I was too relaxed to have been sleeping for only seven hours. I felt like I was just in that in-between place that came after a fourteen-hour nap. I arched my back and stretched my arms up behind my head and nestled into the soft pillows that cushioned me. Whatever had happened, it was a good thing. No one was going to fault a second-semester senior for skipping a day of classes towards the end of June.

I was settling back in for another sleep when strange noises began to intrude on my brain. Traffic noises. It was like sleeping in New York again, with the constant little beeps of the horns and the screeches of brakes. Raoul's road was not this noisy, right?

I had been in sheltered suburbia for too long. The noise was starting to irritate me, so I thought that I would close the door to my room, and maybe that would muffle some of the sound before it got to me. That resolution took a while to carry out, since I felt that each of my eyelids were fifty-pound sandbags, and my head was ten times heavier at least. I rolled my arms out to the side, expecting them to drop off the edge of the bed, and when they didn't, and touched only more expanses of satin sheets, I felt my first twinge of worry.

Doubt welled up in my chest, and now I felt my eyes clench shut out of fear, not exhaustion. My breath started to come faster, and I scolded myself for trying so hard to scare me. To prove to myself that there was nothing wrong, I forced my eyes open.

I closed them almost immediately.

_I must be dreaming,_ I chanted to myself. _There is no way that this can be real._

I gave my leg a good hard pinch, and opened my eyes again.

I bolted out of dreamland and into harsh reality so fast that I was on my feet before I was aware that I was moving. I smashed my hip against a beautiful little end table, I was so oblivious. As I stared around the cozy little room, all I could think of was how much trouble I was in.

_Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!_

I thought my heart was going to stop beating. This was not where I had gone to sleep. As a matter of fact, I corrected myself, going towards the window, this was not even the same continent where I had gone to sleep.

There were locks on the doors to the balcony, but even so, I could still see where I was. And there was only one Eiffel Tower in the world. I was in Paris.

_All right. Well, _how_ have I gotten to Paris?_

I severely doubted that Raoul had taken me on an impromptu vacation. So…how many possibilities did that leave?

I couldn't think. I could scarcely breathe. I sat back down on the bed, suddenly suspicious of everything around me, and drew my legs up to my chest. I wasn't even in the same clothes I had been wearing. I had been in my comfy blue-and-gold star pants and my high school t-shirt. Apparently, that hadn't been good enough. I was now dressed in an absolutely decadent silk sheath that shimmered around my frame like ice water. As before, I was not wearing a bra. Okay. That was troubling. While I would have felt more nervous had someone actually provided me with a bra, I was still terrified of the fact that someone had seen me without one.

Clothes. I needed clothes. I don't care who you were, or how brave you happened to be, you did not meet a kidnapper without them.

I was still terribly afraid of moving, lest that should call unwanted attention to myself, but there was no other option. I had to take the risk.

I stepped back down onto the plush rug that felt like it had been woven with silk in it, and moved towards the pair of imposing dressers that overlooked the edge of my bed from the far wall. Pulling open drawer after drawer, I was confronted with a beautiful selection of trousers, folded to razor perfection, cashmere sweaters and more casual shirts, and finally…_lingerie_.

I decided, for the sake of my sanity, to avoid thinking about how everything that had been supplied for me was the perfect size for me.

I picked a cashmere shirt set in cranberry and a pair of black trousers, with the underwear to match. I wanted to look…well…as confident as it was possible to feel.

Now, I was faced with an option. If I really wanted to look confident, I was really going to have to find some toiletries. I knew that my hair was standing on end by this point, and my breath was definitely less than fresh. I also, embarrassingly enough, really had to pee. I wondered if my kidnapper had seen to the fact that I was going to have to tend to bodily needs.

There were three doors that opened into my room. I tried the one to the right of my bed first and found it locked. I assumed that that was the way out. Keeping that firmly in mind, I opened the one to the front of my bed, in between the two dressers. It led to a walk-in closet that held skirts, suits, and more things that ordinarily, I would have only been too happy to look at and explore. Now, I just found it chilling that everything that I'd ever longed for was in that room. There was a door to the far end of that closet, but I wanted to examine the last door in my bedroom first.

Eureka! A bathroom!

I was so anxious to make use of it that I forgot to even check for security cameras. Oh, well. If there were cameras, what could I do other than break them? And that was sure to get someone's attention.

At this point, even thought it quite went against my normal vocabulary, I decided to borrow from Meg's and say, _fuck it_.

I showered, towel-dried my hair, brushed my teeth, and dressed. I noticed that I had not been supplied with a razor. Apparently, someone did not want to give me the chance to use the blade. Probably a good idea, because at this moment, I felt as though I could definitely use it against the first person who walked through the door. There was also almost nothing that I could use to harm myself. Unless I wanted to slit my wrists with a light fixture or something, there were no painkillers or sleeping pills anywhere in the bathroom. No quick way to end anything. I shivered.

Well, at this point I was about as ready as I could possibly be. But the bathroom was so large, so friendly and safe, that I really did not want to go outside again. I shuddered, thinking of what could lie on the other side of that door. I took a firm grip on myself, and pushed open the door.

Apparently, breakfast lay on the other side. Someone had been in and out of the room, and he had left an absolutely delicious-smelling breakfast. It was a French-style breakfast; there was coffee with a little pot of cream, slices of baguettes with strawberry jelly to go on top, as well as toast. My stomach rumbled, and I wondered how long I had been sleeping. It definitely took a while to get over the Atlantic, didn't it?

I might have been more suspicious of the food that had been left for me, but with the carelessness that had accompanied me in the bathroom, I was smearing strawberry over a slice of bread and adding cream to the coffee without a second's hesitation. I was nervous, but I was almost certain that death did not lie in my immediate future. As a matter of fact, I did not think, so long as I was careful, that I needed to worry about it at all. No one could have brought me here, supplied me with all of these things, and bothered to feed me, with the intention of murdering me in the near future. That left, I thought with a shudder, several other possibilities as to my fate, but death was not one of them.

Right now, as a matter of fact, I felt like a very pampered mistress. I wondered if that was what someone had had in mind. I snorted. They had no idea who they were dealing with then. That would _never_ be my fate.

I finished my coffee, and two slices of bread, but a roiling feeling in my stomach, born partially from worry and probably from whatever they had used to drug me with, prevented me from eating more. I abandoned the tray in the bedroom and went back to the closet, wanting to examine the room on the other side of the door.

When it creaked open, I stopped myself from gasping in delight. It was the corner room of the apartment, and it was at the top floor of the building, so the windows on two sides of the room made me feel as if I were floating in midair above the panorama of Paris. Such an incredible view!

And the room was something that I had only been able to dream of. It was partially the library that I'd always wanted to have, as well as the ideal workroom. A beautiful mahogany desk (I didn't even want to think of how expensive it was) contained writing paper, leather-bound journals, and very beautiful ball-point pens. Now, that might not seem like anything to anybody except me, but to me, it was a wet dream. I felt a rush of gratitude for whomever had supplied this for me, before smacking myself over the head and shutting the drawers of the desk with a little too much enthusiasm.

Shaking my head, I went over to the glass-fronted shelves—another dream of mine—and examined the collection of books. My favorite titles were all there, etched in the leather covers in gold. I unlocked one of the doors, as the keys had been placed beneath them, where I was sure to see them, and pulled out my favorite book of all time, Pride and Prejudice. The weight of the volume was regal, almost, and the pages were thick paper. I had never held such a beautiful book in my life. I shivered and put it back, locking the shelf firmly.

I was back to being terrified. Each one of these books were books that I had read and loved. There was no way that someone could have picked these out for me without having significant knowledge of what I had read and loved. For example, if someone knew that I loved Charles Dickens, he would have included David Copperfield in the library. But it was not there. And why? Because I didn't like it. I owned it, but I didn't love it.

I felt as if someone had looked inside my mind and my soul and had taken all my dreams and put them into this room. I couldn't stay there. I retreated back into the bedroom, which was by far the most neutral of the rooms in regards to my personal preferences, and curled up in one of the cushioned chairs next to the bed. I wondered how long it would be before someone came to speak to me. I wondered how long it would take me to drive myself insane with wondering.

Either way, this situation was intolerable. I stood up, straightened my clothes, finger-combed my hair, checked myself in the mirror, and tried the door to the right of the bed again.

This time, much to my shock, it gave.

I crept out into a long hallway, with doors on either end of it. A little to my right, and curving downwards, was a beautiful wrought-iron spiral staircase. The wooden floor was beautifully polished, and accented with a long runner of beige and brilliant green vines. Dreamily golden sunlight filtered through the windows, catching flecks of dust in the air and illuminating them, making it seem as if gold dust was floating in the air.

There was music coming from downstairs. I would have thought that it was from a recording, considering how absolutely beautiful the technical perfection was.

But the notes…the notes were like nothing I had ever heard. The tune was…so…

How could I describe it? Triumphant? Victorious? Passionate? A mixture of all of them, definitely, but there was a darker undertone that formed a wild current beneath the notes. I grasped the railing at the top of the stairs and sank to my knees, wishing for the strength to go on and yet terrified of what I knew I would find.

Him. It had to be Him. There was no one else I had ever known who could possibly have created something like this.

My breath had practically stopped in my throat. This whole situation was so unreal that I didn't know what to think. I had felt such an odd kind of kinship with this man that I almost couldn't believe that he had kidnapped me. Somewhere, underneath the terror and fear in my mind, I almost felt like I was there of my own free will. That idea was ridiculous, of course, but it hardly changed the way I felt. I wanted to go down to him, to talk with him—I'd wanted to do that before—but everything was different now. He had _kidnapped_ me! Why?

I hit my head against the metal railing, the dull thump an accent to the end of his phrase. What do you mean 'why', you moron! You can't seriously think…

You _can't_ seriously think…

I wanted to go down to him. I wanted to be sure it was him. I wanted to look into his eyes and ask him why.

But I was so scared. Scared still. What could I say? What could he say? What was there to be said, other than 'let me go home'?

My heart stilled again. My home. My father! Was he all right? I had to get into contact with the doctors, to find out if he was okay. What if he had a relapse? What if the worst had happened?

Fear drove me to my feet. I had to see him now, if only to ask if my father was all right. If he knew enough to kidnap me, then he definitely had to know about my father. Maybe there was some way to convince him to let me call the doctors. Maybe if I promised him that I wouldn't try to escape…

I don't think that it is possible for anyone to understand the fear I was feeling. Fear for myself, for my father, for my future…for anyone else who had to come after me. I was afraid! And nothing, no rationalizations were going to make me any more comfortable. It was fear such as I'd never felt before. I had never been so paralyzed. Even as I berated myself for being a coward, I realized that it wasn't really my fault. Nothing could prepare me for this, so I just had to do the best I could.

The iron railing was comfortable and solid. I took the stairs one small step at a time, my bare feet barely making any noise at all. When I reached the floor beneath me, I descended again, the music drawing me on, drawing me down.

Three floors I descended. Finally, the last turn took me down into darkness. All that drew me on was the crazy impulse that his music provided. I was afraid of the basement darkness that lay beneath me, but I had gone too far to retreat now. Funny how escape seemed to mean nothing to me. I didn't even look aside from my course to notice whether or not there was a window I could break. I didn't watch for unlocked doors, or knives, or weapons. I only thought of him. I wanted to see him.

The stairs leading into the basement were wooden, and not polished or finished. A fine film of cobwebs clung to them, and my toes curled up at the thought of what I might be stepping on. They creaked slightly, but the sound was more than swallowed up by the cacophonous noise of the organ.

The basement was cavernous, and it was so palely lit—there were only three or four candles at the end of the room—that I could not see the edges of the room itself. It felt as if a great darkness, ethereal and unreal, were stretching out into eternity and erasing my being into nothing. This sense was so overwhelming that when I reached the base of the stairs, I wanted to cling to them and never let go. They, with their continuing illumination from above, were the only lifelines that I had. But I saw his illuminated figure at the edge of the room, and without another thought, I moved away from the stairs and continued on the inexorable path towards him.

He had wanted me to find him this way. I knew it. He left the door unlocked, and he beckoned me towards him with his music. Him. Erik. What was it, I wondered, that I found so compelling? There had been a chance for me to escape. But not now. Not now, when I was so close to him.

He didn't notice me. Why should he? When he was so involved with the beauty, and horror, of his music? I was afraid of it, I truly was, but at the same time, I was confident enough to move to his right, so that I could look at his face.

Again, I was confronted with that blank. It was black this time, not white, and it matched his black sweater and trousers. He also wore black gloves, and that jolted my memory. I'd forgotten that before, I had never seen his hands.

The only thing I'd seen were his perfectly formed, beautifully mobile lips. I'd thought quite a bit about those lips, about what they could do, and even more about what I'd wanted them to do. The reason his kidnapping me had surprised me this much was because…because I might have gone with him, if he'd asked me to.

That realization brought a gasp from me, one that he didn't notice. His eyes were firmly shut, and though the music was quiet now, his fingers were moving faster than ever. I knelt down by the side of his chair and just watched the way the leather-clad fingers evoked such a beautiful melody from the instrument.

I felt tears prick at my eyes. I was so confused, just…so unbelievably confused. I was afraid, exhilarated, tired, and fairly certain that I couldn't feel any more or I would go mad. I let my head rest on the edge of his chair, my hair brushing up against his leg, and it was only then that he noticed me. The music slowed, moved to a gentler melody yet, without a pause, but I knew that he was looking down at me. His music twined around me, moving me almost like a marionette on strings, and I looked up at him.

His eyes. I would never forget them. They alone could have made me forsake my life to follow him in slavish obedience. They looked at me, and saw through me, and in doing so, saw every aspect of my being. I had seen them in humor, in anger, in fear, and in…in lust.

But now…they were sad. Achingly sad. So sad that I felt the tears spring from my eyes in response to his grief. I felt with amazement the tracks of wet rolling down my face. He looked with amazement upon them.

"Why?"

The question was out. It might have come from either one of us, but I believe that it fell from my lips first. It might have meant anything, and indeed I wasn't sure what I was asking. But there were so many questions to be answered, it didn't really matter which one came first.

He stared down at me, his gaze soft and caressing. His fingers ceased to move over the instrument, and I almost sobbed at the loss of the divine sound. But then his gloved hands moved over me. He stroked my hair, and as I let my head hang towards the ground, he touched my chin and brought my eyes to his.

He whispered, the sound music enough to make up for the loss of the playing, "Because I love you."

The words hit me square in the chest like a ton of bricks. I knew it, I had known it, but…to hear them said…by such a man…it was unbelievable. I knew from Meg's experiences, that even if a man felt that way about a woman, he never admitted to it. His candor touched me in a way that I had never felt before that and tears flowed freely from my eyes. I lay my head against his knee and I sobbed.

He sighed. "Christine." He whispered again, his skillful hands touching my hair, "Oh, Christine."

His voice eased my pain, and I stopped crying, though I made no move to wipe the tears from my face. His eyes held nothing but pity for me. But then they strengthened, as did his voice.

"Christine," he said, the tone in his voice snapping me to attention. "We are going to the Opera tonight. You should be getting dressed."

I wondered why I had not thought of that before. Of course I should be getting ready.

"Go upstairs now, Christine, and do not leave your room until I tell you to do so."

It was only after that I had come back upstairs that I realized what exactly he had done to me. Anger rushed through my being, and I felt my face flush with it. That would not happen again. I had to remember what a dangerous enemy I was now facing. I couldn't afford to fall under his spell. Down there, in the darkness, I had felt as if I were drowning, with him as my only lifeline. However, the reality was…

…he could hold my head under the water and I wouldn't rise to fight off my certain death.

I had to remember _what_ I was dealing with.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

I sat in the silence and watched her retreating back. She paused at the base of the stairs and shook her head, almost as if she were trying to drive out cobwebs. Then, she slowly mounted the stairs and disappeared from my sight. I sighed. I held no regret for what I had just told her. It was the honest truth, and though I might make a life out of dishonesty and deception, it was not what I wanted for our relationship. I smiled bitterly. We were a long way from having a relationship, if I could even use the word.

Yet, I knew that there was something there. She had come to me willingly enough, responded to my grief, and understood what I had told her, as if she had been expecting it. I was not a mind-reader, by any means, but years of studying the human psyche did not leave me with no impressions as to the thoughts of mankind. She was angry, underneath, even beneath her feelings for me, and her anger would come to the surface very soon. I knew that I would not be able to control her without my music. She was brave enough to look in the face of the fear that I could instill and act regardless. Even with my music, Christine would not be so easily manipulated again.

I felt my blood rise. Of course she would not be. But therein lay the challenge. And therein lay the fun.

I rose from the organ's chair and extinguished the candles, not flinching as she had when the darkness enveloped me. I had told her to be dressed and ready. I needed to do likewise.

I had not been lying when I had told her that we were going to the Opera. Since her love of music and composition was an integral part of her being, I would never want to take that away from her. In fact, by showing her the world that she longed to become a part of, I hoped to drag her down into the nest that I had created for her. Reading her journals had given me such a detailed look at each one of her dreams and hopes that I knew everything she wanted was in my power to give. Including the exact kind of relationship that she desired.

My apartments lay directly beneath hers, on the third floor of the apartment. My servants would normally have occupied the second, and on the first floor were all of the entertaining and dining rooms, as well as the kitchen and laundry rooms. Each door on the second floor was locked to her, since I had no servants with me now, save one cook who prepared my meals for me during the early hours of the morning. While I might have done this myself, I did not want to divert my attention from my little prisoner one moment more than necessary. Christine was resourceful, and though there was no place that she could hide from me, she was smart enough to make things very difficult.

My tuxedo was beautifully tailored, so that it was always a joy to wear. There was nothing more amusing than seeing some Parisian teenager patronizing the arts in a rented tuxedo. To watch them adjusting the collars, or pulling at the sleeves. I smiled even as I thought of it, and tucked a fresh rose into my lapel. I checked the tickets again, and slipped them into the inner pocket of my jacket.

The clock read 6:45. That gave us enough time to struggle through the traffic and get to the Opera ten minutes before the curtain at 7:30. Though I did not live far from the Opera, there was always a crowd before the doors.

My heart beat faster as I climbed the stairs to her floor. There was only one door, a modification of mine when I had my first 'guest'. 'Fewer entrances, fewer exits', was my motto in that regard. While I wished that I could already trust Christine with more freedom, I was no fool. She would try to escape from me, until that day when she found she no longer desired to.

I paused outside of her door, wondering what my reception would be. I was always cautious, since I would not put it past her to try and run from me this early in the game. But all the doors were locked, and all the windows had been replaced with shatterproof glass. I thought it best that she not know that, but she could always find out by herself.

I knocked, politely, and, upon hearing nothing from within, I opened the door.

Christine looked up at me, her expression carefully neutral, from the bench at the edge of her bed. She stood and faced me with dark defiance. I wanted to smirk at her show of spine—since I had known it to be there all along—but she looked furious with herself and with me over the bit of manipulation earlier, so I refrained. She was not dressed. The clock on the dresser ticked the seconds slowly by.

I let the weight of my silence crash against the walls of her defiance. I knew that eventually she would crack, afraid to take any more of the pressure. I would not have to force her; I would just make her too afraid to do anything else.

She faced me, her head held high, her shoulders squared. She looked me square in the eye, and said, "I am not going anywhere."

I smiled. "Need I remind you, my dear?" a hint, no more, of a threat crept into my voice, "You really have no alternatives."

Ah, and here we see the frailty of the mortal species. A hint, no more, suggesting the damage I could do, and already she was afraid. Not so that many could see it—she was admirable that way—but her breath hitched and her hands trembled where she clenched them to her sides.

We stood that way for several carefully measured seconds longer, and when she showed no signs of relenting, I wanted to see how much she was going to make me push her. I feigned relenting.

"You must not have been able to find anything suitable," I breezed right past her, going close enough to feel the tension reverberating from her very muscles, "I understand. One's first visit to the Opera is rather…special."

I did not need to watch to see her flinch. I went into her closet and picked out a dress that had been put there expressly to test her limits. It was the most beautiful cocktail dress I had ever seen. I knew that she would never wear it. I watched her reaction carefully as I laid it out on her bed and would have laughed out loud at the dumbfounded and terrified expression on her face if I had not been sensitive to her overwrought feelings.

At this point, Christine showed me the iron that had been bred into her. A lesser girl would have succumbed, tearfully putting on the dress and obeying my wishes. She looked at me furiously, stalked into the closet, picked a dress that she had obviously had her eye on, found the lingerie to match—in plain sight of me—marched into the bathroom, and locked the door behind her.

Within minutes, just when I was wondering if I had misjudged the time we had remaining, she emerged from the bathroom, looking lovelier than I could ever attempt to describe, wearing a cranberry sheath of satin that flared out ever so gently from her hips to the floor. She refused to meet my eyes—though they followed her everywhere—went back into the closet, and selected the pumps to match.

When she reemerged from the closet, she surprised me even further by adding an infantile, "Happy?"

I felt, suddenly, like the overbearing father of a teenaged girl. I winced when I realized that that was what I could be. I decided to start hinting again.

I stepped aside, my lips motionless, and extended an arm, motioning her towards the stairwell. Her boisterous manner calmed substantially, and she took the handbag from the top of her dresser and walked out before me, her head ducked almost as if to dodge a slap. She would never know how angry and elated she made me—sometimes even simultaneously—but her instincts were still sharp. She might even need them if she kept pushing me so.

We walked to the first floor, and it was testament to her courage that she never looked behind her, though the set of her back indicated that she was very leery of having me constantly behind her. As we approached the door, and her hand reached out to take the handle, mine moved swiftly out to take it. The sudden contact made her gasp, and she jerked back from me so violently that she almost upset the entryway bench. It was not, however, enough to make me loose the grip I had had on her wrist.

My face moved close to hers, and though she tried not to be afraid, she was.

"Don't scream."

Before I could gauge her response, I had turned to the door, punched in the interior access code, and opened the door. I motioned to her again, and we went out into the Parisian evening together.

The weather was unseasonably cold for the middle of June, but the Parisian nightlife stopped for nobody and nothing. Already the streets were flooded with the cars of the modern-day aristocracy—i.e., those with the money to make themselves important—each one of them dressed to the nines for a night at the Opera. I was one of them, technically, as my sponsorship could make or break any musical, opera or play I chose to sponsor, and I threw my weight around almost as much as any charity-obsessed Comtesse. The mark of 'E. Troche' was a gem in any amateur production, though none of them had ever seen me, and none of them had ever produced anything even marginally worth seeing. I only sponsored them in the hopes that one day something truly amazing would present itself. I supposed then, that I could stop. _My_ gem was standing right beside me, trying hard not to be overwhelmed by the sights of the city she had always dreamed of.

My chauffer opened the door for us, and I noticed with displeasure the look of shock and the frank look of interest he showed towards Christine. My look, as I passed into the car behind her, was—hopefully—chilling enough to stop any such ideas before he even considered them again. I would have everyone admire her that night, but no one touch her.

Enclosed in the space of the car, I swear I could almost hear her heart beat. She stared out the window next to her, looking at the buildings, the street signs, absolutely enamored of the beauty of the place, and obviously trying to remember the address. I knew that her first escape attempt was with her that night; she had not had enough time to dress and do whatever she was planning on. She was not stupid—she had wanted to be ready in order to stop me from suspecting anything. Nor was she inordinately disobedient, especially since she suspected how intractable I could be. She was not, though, entirely trusting of me yet. She wanted to make it through alive, and cooperation was the key, or so she thought.

My fingers clenched against my knee. Until she betrayed me. Until she left me, alone. Again.

I too, looked out my window, and a smile twisted my face. But I would never let her go. She did not know that yet, but I would never, ever let her go. She was mine. As long as God remained uncaring in his heaven, she was mine!

And I made a vow to her, as well as to myself. The day God condescended to show himself to me, she could go free. The day God admitted me as one of his children again, she would be my first tribute in humility to Him.

My smile broadened. She would be mine forever.

The car slid to a stop. The Paris Grand Opera House.

I held her arm folded tightly to my side as we made our way up the crowded stairway and into the dark hallways that led to the boxes. I was a subscriber to the best seat in the house, Box #5, and had been for the past 10 years. It was always my first financial concern. I could do well enough without a house, without fine clothes or servants, but I would never go without my box. Nor was it an unsubstantial concern either. The cost for holding one of the boxes for a season was fairly astronomical, even to the wealthier set in Paris.

As we entered the box, I heard the rustle of serge skirts behind me, and I turned to greet the old Madame Giry, faithful keeper of the boxes since time immemorial. She wore the keys to the storage rooms like gold and silver badges of honor, and indeed, there were few offices in the world more honorable than hers. She was wise, as befitted her years, yet discreet, and I had often longed to tempt her away from the Opera and into my employ. But I had never made the offer. I knew she would never agree, and I would not want her to in any case. She belonged her. Perhaps more than I did.

I took two programs from her, making sure that the libretto was tucked firmly between the pages of Christine's, and arranged for two glasses of wine be brought to myself and my guest during intermission. Paris was extremely lax as regards drinking laws.

The lights were just going down as I reentered the box, and Christine had pulled her chair to where she could rest her arms against the plush edge of the box. Her frame trembled with excitement, and she leaned forward, watching the orchestra sound its final tuning note, just before the curtain made its majestic ascent and the overture struck us with a wave of glorious sound.

I tapped her arm discreetly with the program, and she took it from me with a murmured thanks. She was far too engrossed in the performance to remember what her circumstances actually were. It was an exploitable weakness, but one that I felt much sympathy for. Music threw us both into an ecstasy.

It was late in the Opera season, and to a professional's eye, it was obvious that the performers were very tired. One aria lacked the proper force that befitted the amorous Radames (it was Aida that we were watching) and the ensemble in general was not as professionally crisp as usual. As a private observer, I would have considered this viewing a failure.

But watching Christine…everything took on a new perspective. Watching Christine, I was able to remember the time before I had had music. Before there was light in my life. She was the embodiment of every marvelous wonder I had ever had. She leaned forward to watch the audience's reaction, she studied the performers and watched the scenery changes, she felt every emotion that the opera offered, even to the point of crying during Aida's passionate cry for justice. Her tears were nothing substantial, just one or two drops, whisked impatiently to the side, but she felt, where others just watched, or, in some cases, snored.

Intermission came, and as before, when the music stopped, so did her lovely oblivious state. But this time, the residue of the—to her—magical performance stayed with her. She turned to me and smiled, laughing and clapping still. It was the first glimpse of childish abandon that I had ever seen in her, and I admit, I smiled too.

But then, the questioning started in earnest. How did they shift the scenes? How was the illusion of moonlight done? Did they still use candles, or had they changed to electricity? How often to characters rehearse in full costume and with the scenery behind them?

I answered these as completely as I could, without making short work of the answers, encouraging her to take more and more wine before the intermission was over. When the curtains raised again, her face was slightly flushed. She had had two glasses of wine, when she had been very careful to take only one or two sips before. And she did not, I noticed, enjoy the first few songs, thinking about the mistakes she had made. But the music slowly took control of her again, and she was lost to everything else.

I took the opportunity to glance into her purse. This had been the clue that alerted me to something wrong in her performance earlier that day. Had she truly been intending to fool me, she would have put the purse back into the closet with the rest of the outfit. But she had forgotten that I would notice it. And so she left it out.

Behind her back, I removed the three sheets of letter paper that she had stuffed inside, and read the beginning of her note.

_Raoul; _

_Help me! You were right, it is Erik. I know I should have listened to you, but I am sorry that I did not believe you. I am in Paris, I will try to tell you what my address is when we go out later tonight. I'm scared Raoul. Don't tell my father what's wrong, I don't think he could deal with another heart attack. Just tell the police, or someone, that I've been kidnapped. He's coming, I'll write soon._

The envelope was addressed to Raoul's condominium. The writing was hurried and sloppy, the only legible part being really the address. She had taken a book of stamps with her too, as well as a pen to write the rest of the letter. The final aria had begun while I was still trying to decide what, precisely, to do with this little piece of betrayal.

Should I destroy the letter and see if she confronted me? Should I allow her to send it, and risk being inundated with police? Of course, de Chagny would never _bother_ with police, stupid little boy. He would come and confront me himself. How wonderful.

I replaced the sheets of paper and the envelope just as I had found them, and watched the rest of the performance, highly amused, though it clashed with the tense moment. There was so much to look forward to.

When Christine begged to be excused to the bathroom after the performance, I put on a great show of being grudgingly permissive. When she emerged a bare three minutes later, I was impressed with how quickly she could write.

I allowed her, with hardly any complaint, to roll down the windows in the car. She complained that she felt sick, and that she needed fresh air. I knew it was because she was searching for a mailbox. I glanced the other way when I saw her flick something long and white out of the window, and only looked over at her when she slumped back against the seat, clutching her head between her flat palms. I would not be surprised if she had gotten her first hangover.

I locked the door on her for the night and took off my evening dress, opting for something a little more simple. Then I went for a walk. She had thrown the letter out only two blocks from the house, and it would be a shame if it were missed in the morning pickup, now wouldn't it?

I found the envelope, still marginally white even after being run over several times in the gutter, and slipped it into the mailbox. I did hope that she had gotten the address correct, but I was certain, that even with this slight encouragement, her knight in shining armor would come running no matter what.

And I knew exactly who he would go to right upon arrival. Though I could trust Nadir to back me up when he agreed with the target of my intentions, I knew well enough that he would never support me if he happened to disagree. Thus far, we had never had a moment's disagreement, except over the unfortunate affair of Phillippe de Chagny. It had been he, who, through various mediums, had led the younger brother so close to actually seeing me leave the scene of his murder.

I knew that Nadir knew exactly who I had with me in my home now, and what her circumstances were. Quite frankly, I would never expect anything less. But Nadir never knew how I watched him, knowing each and every move he made. He never suspected that I knew exactly what information he leaked, and though he was very careful never to be overconfident, I still knew that he was very proud of his ability to function 'behind my back'.

Oh well. It all worked for the greater good, after all. As I slipped her letter into the mailbox, I hoped that Nadir would send one of his own soon after. If Christine's impassioned plea was not enough to get him moving, Nadir's cold confession of facts was quite persuasive. He would come, I was absolutely certain.

It was very late by the time I returned. I had gone for a long walk in the Bois, to think and clear my head, and it was past midnight before I walked back up to her room. I listened at the door for a moment, making certain that I heard no noises from within. I had to verify in person because I had had removed all the security cameras before she awoke. Spying on her seemed too low, even for me, and I wanted her to be secure in her privacy.

Knowing she would have need of it in the morning, I unlocked the door and placed a bottle of aspirin on her bedside table, along with a glass of water that I filled in her bathroom. Her legs were curled up to her chest, and she had wrapped the blanket up around her head. Her face was flushed and her breathing deep and even.

I left her with one wistful backward glance to the sweet oblivion of her dreams.


	14. Chapter Fourteen

My bags were already packed by the time the two letters came to my door in the afternoon mail. For a moment, I was aggravated, because I had made certain to stop at the post office the day before and have all my mail forwarded back to my apartment in Paris. It had never entered my mind not to go after Christine. I had lost my brother to that monster, and if he was doing all this to torture me, I could hardly leave her to him. I had to save her.

I had no desire to read the mail, but as I was putting my suitcases into my car, I caught a glimpse of a linen-fiber envelope (very expensive) that had been run over by at least one car. My heart leaped. Perhaps it was from Christine! I had only the highest respect for her intelligence and drive; I knew that she could find some way to contact me were she still alive.

I tore the envelope in half in my eagerness to read her letter, and upon seeing her first word, I longed to do nothing but destroy that monster and get to her as soon as possible. She was clever! She had managed to send me the address, which might have taken a while to track down with no foreknowledge of the assassin's actual name. I knew that he went by 'Erik'. But other than that, no research I had done ever revealed to me his actual identity.

I sent her a silent prayer as I folded the letter and tucked it into my jacket. Again, I was just about to close the mailbox when another letter caught my eye. It was also on expensive stationary, and the return address, from another apartment in Paris, held no significance for me. I would have bypassed it entirely, assuming that it was from some university group or other seeking funding, but the name on the letter was 'Nadir Khan'. An odd name, to be sure. Instinct told me that he also had to do with Christine. I tore open the envelope and read the following words.

_Raoul de Chagny;_

_My name is Nadir Khan. I am currently in the employ of Erik Troche, the man whom you have been seeking as responsible for the murder of your brother and the kidnapping of Christine Day. I can offer you valuable assistance in this matter, for I was against both of these actions on the part of my employer. I know that you will be unlikely to trust me, M Chagny, but understand; Erik will be impossible for you to catch without extensive knowledge of his character and habits. I can provide those. If you would appreciate my help, please send me word by the e-mail address that follows. I do not believe Miss Day to be in any danger at the moment, but time is always precious. I know that he no longer trusts me with his plans. If they leave Paris, it could take years to find them again. Immediate action is crucial._

_If you intend to come to France, tell me the date of your arrival and I shall arrange to meet you._

It seemed too convenient. I was loathe to trust this man, as he said, but I also knew that what he said was true. I would never find him again if he did not want me to. Any information I knew about him was information that he did not mind being known. My brother had had government connections that could have helped me, but now I was on my own, and I needed someone to help me. He had said that Christine was in no danger, but I could never trust anyone I loved in the hands of that monster.

For I did love Christine. Her gentle, sarcastic humor, her quick smile that seemed to bring light and warmth to a room. She was a miracle in every way. But it almost seemed impossible for anyone not to love her, once they caught a glimpse of who she really was. I know I had been shocked at the discovery, especially after such a short period of acquaintance. Afterwards though, it seemed perfectly natural. I loved and admired her, from the bottom of my heart, and I would help her if I could. I decided to accept the help of this Mr. Khan.

My computer was already packed for the movers to take care of. I knew that hunting Erik would essentially take all the time left in my internship, and I had to face the professors at the university and think of any excuse for leaving in the middle of a job. I knew that it would cost my reputation among my peers, but any regret I felt for that was swept away when I thought of another of my loved ones being lost to his cruel greed. I would contact Nadir from the airport terminal, before I boarded the plane.

Just as I was putting the last of my bags in the trunk and preparing to leave the house for the movers, Meg Tabin drove up in her little Neon, taking up the exit route from my driveway. She jumped out of the car, leaving the engine running, and ran up to me. The desperate fear on her face was unmistakable.

"_Where's Christine?_" her voice was rough, "I went to her house, and she wasn't there. She told me that she would leave your house today. But she's obviously not here either. I went to the hospital, and they told me that her father died last night, and they can't reach her on her home phone to tell her. _Where is she?_"

I felt the rough jolt of fear when I heard about her father. "Mr. Day is dead?"

Meg looked furious at being put aside, but she planted her hands on her hips and said, "Yes. He's dead. He had a relapse in his heart attacks. The doctors say that's normal, but they tried to reach Christine and they _can't!_ Do you know where she is?"

It was absolutely necessary to calm her hysteria, even if it meant telling her the truth. "Yes, Meg. I know."

She made a gesture with her arm as if to say 'it's-about-bloody-time'.

I took a deep breath, looked up and down the street, and said, "Before I tell you, turn off your engine and come inside. This will take quite a bit of explanation."

To forestall any of her questions, I turned my back and marched into the house, collecting the two notes that Erik had left me, Christine's letter, Nadir Khan's letter, and the photo of my brother, and brought them all into the living room. Hospitality made me wish that I had not packed away the coffeepot yet, but I knew that Meg Tabin was not one to appreciate that sort of thing when she was upset.

When she came into the living room, she seemed to have collected herself. She sat on the sofa and waited expectantly for my explanation.

Never having been one to mince words, I let her hear all of my speculations, all of my history with Erik. I told her about his visits to my home, Christine's abduction, and Phillippe's murder. I told her of what other assassinations I believed him responsible for, and finally, laid out Christine's probable situation. I held off in talking about Nadir's letter, for something else was bothering me about the new, and disturbing piece of information she had leaked.

"And now that you mention Mr. Day's death…it does not seem to me to be impossible that he killed him, to sever Christine's connections from humanity. Without her father, what has she to come back for?" I mused.

Meg, who had been growing paler with every second I spoke, seemed aggravated by this remark. "She has me, of course." She stood up and started to pace, slapping her car keys in her hands. "Now, what are we going to do about this?"

"_I_," I emphasized, "am going to Paris to track him down. You, _mademoiselle_, are going to stay right here and finish your high school degree. Christine might not receive hers, but there is no excuse for you to do likewise."

Meg turned to me, and slowly strode forwards. "My best friend of all time is in the hands of a homicidal maniac who has some sort of twisted obsession with her and you think that I am going to stay here for the sake of attending the last six days of the school year! No way." She concluded, having quite intimidated me. "I am going with you. We're going to get…Christine…back."

I was stunned. "How do you plan on doing that, Meg?" I dropped the formality, "If you want to get to Paris, you have to buy your own plane ticket and make excuses with your family. I cannot be responsible for you."

Meg smiled and said, "When are you leaving?"

I saw no harm in telling her. "Six o'clock tonight."

She smiled even broader and pulled out her cellular phone. "I'll make the flight." She said. This time, I had no desire to argue with her. Technically speaking, she was eighteen, and could do whatever she felt like doing. I did not want to be responsible for her, which, no matter what I said, I would end up being anyway, but should Christine be further under Erik's powerful influence when we found her, Meg's help could come in very useful. I might love her, but Meg had known her longer and was her best friend. I would always be second place to her influence.

Meg had wandered into the living room and I caught scraps of her conversation as she argued with the flight attendant. I had been brought up not to eavesdrop, however, and though I was painfully curious, I solved the problem by stacking boxes in the bedroom. A totally superfluous task, of course, but it took my mind off of anxiety for a few moments.

Several minutes later, Meg flounced into my bedroom, her bank card flashing in her hand.

"Mission accomplished," she smiled at me. "Should I leave my car here, or is someone else moving in?"

I was confused. "You cannot leave it at your house?"

"Well, I could, but then I'd have to tell Mom where I'm going, and first, I don't think she'd believe me, and second, this isn't a Nancy Drew. She'd never let me go. I think it's best all around if she doesn't know where I am. Oh!" she exclaimed, "Duh, I'll just leave it at the airport. It can be towed for all I care."

"Meg, do you really know what it is you are doing?" I asked her, concerned over her airy behavior. "Your parents will be worried. You could loose credit in school. Going after Erik is going to be extremely dangerous. You could be harmed physically or even worse."

She looked at me, and suddenly her eyes were full of tears. "I know." She whispered. "I know. But you have to understand. Christine is my best friend. There's nothing I wouldn't do for her, and vice versa. It's not just that she would go if our roles were reversed. It's that I want to go, because that is what best friends do for each other. And _fuck it_ if that sounds corny!"

I admired her grit and bravery. I held out my hand to her. "I will appreciate your help, Meg. You might be the only one who can get Christine away from him, in the end."

She shook my outstretched palm. "Why? I thought you said he's a homicidal maniac. That's definitely not Christine's type. Where's the danger of Stockholm Syndrome here?"

I shook my head. "He is much more than that, Meg. So very much more."

Several long, anxious hours later, we were on the plane, noses pointed towards Paris. I showed her Nadir's letter, and we agreed that we could accept his help, but we always had to be careful to use caution. There were so many things that could go wrong on this chance that we were taking. I would have been cautious enough with my own life on the line. But now, I had to be careful of Meg's. Though she assured me time and time again, I knew that I was too much afraid to have the death of another on my hands. I did not believe that Erik could kill a woman, but he had murdered Christine's own flesh and blood—I was now certain of that—so his obsession and cruelty really did know no bounds.

Meg, for the most part, had maintained the same bravado that had carried her through our first harrowing conversation. But now, as our plans for the future seemed nebulously set, she was lapsing into a brooding silence. She stared out the window for a while, and fiddled with the strap of the handbag that she held on her lap. I wanted to say something, to calm her nerves, but I was nervous as well, and hardly felt up to the task.

"You don't think he'll hurt her, do you?"

Her words startled me out of a black gloom of my own, and I replied quickly. "No. I think that she is safe. But, disgusting as this may seem, I believe he is in love with her."

Meg shook her head, looking to be on the verge of tears. "I feel ridiculous. Like none of this should be happening to me. More importantly, none of this should be happening to Christine." She shook her head and attempted a smile again. "But it is. And actually, an adventure like this was something that the both of us were looking for, so I guess we should be grateful, right?"

I did not know how to look at a declaration like that. She caught my confusion with amusement and continued.

"Come on, I'm just kidding. If you get too serious, you'll go insane before we even get there."

We both lapsed into silence for a few minutes, before she spoke again.

"What is he like?"

"How do you mean?"

"I mean," she was impatient, "what does he look like? What does he do? Where does he come from? Do you know anything about him besides his connection with your brother and Christine? You said he was an assassin. Tell me everything you know."

At that moment, I would rather have laid on a bed of nails than discuss the man whom I had hated for years. I felt my blood burn as I thought of him. I had purposely glossed over what I knew of his history because to think of it made me physically sick. But Meg had noticed that. And she was probably right in that respect. We would need to know his personality to know how to get Christine back.

I sighed, and started to explain. Everything I knew about Erik, his past in Turkey, Iran, and Russia, the evolution of his rose symbol, and the reason why he was nicknamed 'The Phantom'.

Meg commented and questioned, but by the time I had finished the long and gruesome history, I noticed that her insertions had become fewer and fewer. And finally she stopped questioning altogether.

Meg was asleep, and had been for the past several hours by the time we reached Paris. I could not sleep; my restless mind would not permit it. I could not stop myself from thinking of Christine. What was happening to her at this very moment? How could I have prevented this from happening? Questions of that nature plagued me until I wanted to scream from the helpless agony I was feeling.

But at last the opportunity for answers was here. We had finally touched down in the terminal in Paris, where Nadir Khan was supposed to meet us. I had sent him an e-mail from the terminal in Connecticut from which we had departed, and had received a response that told us to meet him at the restaurant directly across from Gate 17. Stroke of good fortune, we landed at Gate 18.

Meg and I both staggered a bit as we came into the waiting room. Several hours on a plane will do that to a person, as I knew well. Crossing the Atlantic was not new to me, but it never failed to be utterly exhausting.

She insisted on carrying one of my bags; I had three, but she had not had the opportunity of taking anything from her home before we had left. I warned her that clothes were expensive in Paris, but she, not being in a good mood, had simply said, in a tone that brooked no argument, that she would wash her current outfit every day if necessary, if only it would get us off the ground sooner. Arguing with Meg Tabin was never a profitable situation, especially once her mind was fixed on something, so I, in American vernacular, had 'let it drop'.

Even with so few bags to carry between us, our legs were so weak that we could barely stagger over to the restaurant, where we collapsed near one of the tables. Nadir Khan was a Persian name, but I saw no one of that race in sight. I was irritated. I had told him the exact time of our arrival, but he might not have seen fit to meet us in any case.

Meg, still very tired, was now sitting with her head sandwiched between her head. I wanted to say something to lift her spirits, but I could not think of anything encouraging to say. My own morale was hanging by a thread; I felt all at once the enormity of the task we had set ourselves to, and though my resolve did not falter, I began to doubt whether we could accomplish it at all.

Suddenly, a short, rather stocky man pushed another chair up against our table, and three steaming paper cups of tea were plopped right into the middle of our folded arms. I started up, intending to tell the man that we were a private party, but the words stopped on my lips when I looked up into the dark face of an unmistakably Persian man.

Meg too, understood the need for privacy, and, with an inventiveness that I admired and envied, cried out, in a tone of delighted recognition, "Nadir! We were beginning to wonder if you would ever join us. How nice to see you again!"

The two of them embraced like old friends, and behind her back, the man winked at me. I too, greeted him, though in a less genuine voice, and consented to have my hands shaken, most warmly, by this extraordinary gentleman.

"I assumed that after your long flight, you would welcome tea." The man said, in a rather stilted, and accented voice. He gestured to the cups, and Meg took one immediately, sugaring hers heavily and thanking him for the thought. I took mine more for the appearance of things than anything else. I felt no desire for food or drink, not until I had heard more news of Christine. But now did not seem the time for business talk.

Nadir smiled and said, in a tone of conversational politeness, "I hope you will not mind waiting for ten minutes more. I arranged to have a car meet us here, but the traffic today…" he trailed off, leaving a careless wave of his hand to convey the rest of his meaning.

Meg seemed to be taking all the initiative. "Of course. This gives us much more time to catch up. How is our mutual friend? You know," she said, diminishing the importance of her meaning by taking a long sip of tea, "the one we spoke of before we left America?"

"Ah," Nadir also shared a sip of tea, "She is quite well, when I last heard from her. Yes, quite well," he directed his eyes towards me with his unspoken meaning, "and as long as she remains in Paris, is likely to remain so."

I took my first jump into this game, saying, in what I hoped would be a nonchalant voice, "Does she go out much? I wonder that her caretaker allows it."

"Oh, he believes it to be good for her." Nadir smiled as he noticed I had caught on to the method of communication. Meg also gave me a delighted smile. "Yes, she has been just recently to the last performance at the Grand Opera. I believe she wrote you about it?"

How he knew that Christine had managed to get a line across the ocean to me was incredible. I was stunned into silence, and Meg had to take up the conversation again.

"Yes, she did, but we still worry about her. I think it's the house she's in that really causes her all the trouble." Meg looked worried as she said so, but she was trying to hide it under friendly auspices.

"I know that you are concerned for her, but we will speak of that later," the flow of our counterfeit conversation was interrupted when a message came through on his cellular phone, "as a matter of fact," he continued, "we can discuss it after I have you comfortably settled in my home. Come," he said, gallantly taking the empty paper mugs from us and disposing of them, "my driver is ready."

When we were comfortably seated in his limousine, which then pulled smoothly away from the curb, I allowed my anger to come through. I did not often allow myself to swear, but my patience was worn to shreds.

"What the hell was the purpose of that?" I snarled, shoving my finger under the Persian's round nose. "Talk straight, damn it! I want to know where she is!"

Meg took hold of my arm and forced it down to my side.

"She is fine. She's been to a show at the Opera, which means that as long as she plays it cool, which she is certain to, he will let her out again. We will be able to talk about actual rescue ideas later, but only after we've both rested and are perfectly calm again."

The Persian looked surprised at the flow of words from Meg, but he shrugged, implying that that was exactly what he had meant to communicate.

Meg stared at me, and I at her. She relented, only to fold her arms angrily across her chest and mutter, "Honestly."

Nadir Khan, obviously hoping to placate us both, assured us that the situation would seem much more hopeful when we were both rested. We allowed ourselves to be herded into his comfortable apartments, were the bedroom had been reserved for Meg and the living room had been cleared for use by both of us.

I, who had not been able to sleep at all on the plane and who was in desperate need of a nap, curled up immediately on the sleeper-sofa and drifted off soon after I heard Meg making plans to visit a local shopping-center with Nadir. My mind, though certainly not calm, was placated enough for sleep. But I dreamed of wrestling a great, implacable shadow, and woke up in the middle of the night to Nadir's gentle snores, my heart pounding and my muscles aching, and certainly not rested at all.


	15. Chapter Fifteen

I woke in the middle of the night to the uncomfortable feeling that someone was holding the two split parts of my skull together with heavy industrial vises. Moaning with both pain and confusion, I groped around in the darkness for the bedside lamp, promptly regretting finding it when the glare of electrical light, even muted by the heavy velvet shade, shot pointed arrows of burning pain through the back of my poor, shattered skull. I burrowed back under the blankets until the ricocheting in my head calmed to a bare minimum. Then, sticking my head out from under the comforter, I let my eyesight adjust, and saw with untold happiness the beautiful sight of a bottle of aspirin.

Bouncing out of bed, still mindful of the headache, I grasped the bottle and fiddled with the child-safe lid, popped about five of them in my mouth, and sucked down half the glass of water after them. I wanted nothing more than just to curl up under the blanket again until the medicine took effect, but something piqued my curiosity, and I had to look. I tried the door to the right of my bed, but it was still locked. But the thing that had caught my eye was the beautiful reflection of light that was peeking out from beneath the curtains of my window.

Upon pulling them away, I looked down with delight on the most beautiful panorama of Paris that I had ever seen in my life. I couldn't even have imagined something so beautiful! Below me, couples strolled on the street, enjoying the blissfully cool evening and marveling at the beautiful expanse of colored glass lights that illuminated the sidewalk. Shades of pink, green, and light blue made the gray paving stones look like a pathway to fairyland. I wondered what the view would be like from the library. I darted through the closet and was met with an even better view. Here, I could see more of the Eiffel Tower, with its eternal river of cars glinting down the Champs Elysees, and, entirely forgetting my headache, I just stood in my window and watched.

I wanted to walk. I had done nothing, I thought with a bitter pang, for the past few days other than sleep. I wanted to get out into that scene and _see, _see what I had always wanted to see. Maybe there was some way…

Maybe there _was_ some way…

Immediately, I felt a jolt of anger for even considering it. There was no way that I was going to ask for any special favors from my kidnapper. No way in hell! After all, I couldn't trust him at all. Of course, if he really did have violent intentions towards me, I might be safer within the sound and sight of other men. Oh, God, it was all so confusing!

I sank to my knees and wrapped my arms around my knees, leaning against the heavy glass of the window. I wanted someone to come and get me out!

The lights of Paris floated and blurred when my eyes filled with tears. But I refused to let them slide down my face. No. I was going to have to be strong. I was going to have to hang onto myself until someone got here to take care of me. There was no other alternative. I'd taken care of myself for long enough now, and I could go on.

The grandfather clock that stood majestically in the corner started to chime 3:00. Each tone, unfortunately, went right through my head. I shivered with the renewed feeling of pain, and began to realize how cold I was in this climate-controlled apartment. I went back into the closet, picked out a heavy velvet robe and slippers, and went back to the study, which seemed to me to be the friendliest room in the whole apartment.

At first, as I sat on the plush, carpeted floor, I wanted to feel tired. I longed to be able to go back to sleep. Sleep promised an oblivion and peace that was unreachable at any other time. But I knew that my mind was too restless. I paced then, and wished that I had a hot cup of tea or coffee to keep me company.

Erik. _Erik_. When was I going to think about him? When had I thought about him? Ever since I had come here, I had tried to forget about him. But, obviously, that was impossible. And he knew that. There was no way that I could help wondering about the man who now held so much power over me.

It would have been easier if I knew what his motives were. But he was so…complex. He was entirely unpredictable. I thought that I knew who he was when we met at first. He had seemed kind, if a little jaded, and we had had a shy, yet friendly rapport. Then, doubts had entered, when I heard what Raoul had to say about him. I had rejected the idea at first, even though it fit with the missing spice in his personality. Then, when I came to accept the facts, I was terrified. That was when I had decided to go with Raoul in the first place. He had been my refuge from forces which, however interesting, I did not understand. Now, I was with him, and he told me that he loved me. I did not doubt that; there was simply no other reason for him to have gone to such lengths to take me away from my family and friends. And yet, it was still hard to believe! He had truly frightened me when we had gone to the Opera. I examined my wrist and could still see the faint bruise that had developed when he grasped it.

What was I supposed to think? I tried to trace an evolution, or a development, of ideas that I thought about him, but there was nothing! Each time I had put trust in him, some interference from either others or he himself tore that trust down again. I was always at square one. If he loved me, why didn't he want to trust me?

I snorted and began to pace again. _That_ was obvious. He had kidnapped me! If he didn't keep me locked up, what proof did he have that I wouldn't just go and reveal him to the cops? That's what I would do right now if he hadn't kept the door locked! Right?

Right?

_Right!_

Christine, you're not giving me an answer.

And the truth was, there was no answer to give. Could I blame him, or punish him, for loving me? Surely, it was a wrong, twisted love, one that held too much obsession to ever flourish, but could I blame him for not knowing what real love is? I knew, deep down, that he didn't want to hurt me. Any pain he caused me was purely accidental. The question was, though, how much hurt could I forgive in the name of his love?

Could I forgive his kidnapping me?

I considered, standing stock-still in the middle of the room. He had hurt no one else (that I knew of, that is) and he had probably had the right motives in mind. Yes, I could forgive him for this. The damage to myself was negligible; he had drugged me, but that had provided no long-term effects. He had frightened me, but once I knew what kind of game he was playing, that also was more to be pitied than punished. And, on top of all that, he had treated me to the greatest performance I was likely to see in my entire life!

Of course, all this did not mean that I wanted to stay with him. Oh, no. But it meant that, perhaps, if he gave me my freedom, that I wouldn't have to press charges against him.

I nodded. That was satisfactory enough. And now, everything seemed simple! I would go to him, demand, in the name of his love for me, my freedom, and if he didn't deliver, then I knew on what ground I stood.

If he didn't free me, then I had to do everything in my power to escape.

I returned to my bedroom and relaxed back onto the bed, the pain in my head barely noticeable now. I wondered why the idea of leaving him, abandoned and alone in this hell of his own design, wrenched so at my heart. I pitied him, that much was clear, but I was too confused by him to really…

No. Really nothing. _Nothing!_

His mask. All my thoughts went around and around this question. Why was he like this? Why did he secrete himself away in this gorgeous apartment? He was like other men. Deep down, I had always fancied that he was handsome underneath the cover of white leather. I wondered what psychological problem had led him to the donning of that mask in the first place.

Suddenly, where there had never been any feeling before, I felt a driving _need_ to see beneath his mask. I scolded myself at first for being rude and reminded myself that curiosity had killed the cat, but at the same time, I was resentful at him for knowing all my secrets. Why shouldn't I know one of his? No moral boundaries held us together. Besides, if he really did have a psychological problem, maybe I could help him tackle it. Maybe he'd believe me if I told him that nothing was wrong.

I cherished that thought as I curled up again. Maybe _I _could help _him_.

The next morning I was pleased to find that my headache was gone. I felt groggy and exhausted to be sure, but considering how bad it might have been, I considered myself well off. This morning, thankfully, even in my odd circumstance, I was not worried about what the day would hold. I hoped that this feeling of well-being would persist, since I was not sure how well I could function being constantly afraid.

I went to the bathroom and popped into the shower, reemerging to find that breakfast had again been laid out for me, and though there was no one else in the room, I murmured a 'thank you' for the kindness.

After eating, I stretched out again on the bed and felt like drifting off again. But, remembering the pattern of yesterday evening, I tried the door first to see if it would be open. It was.

I walked down to the second floor of the apartment, and nearly walked into Erik. He had been coming up the stairs, and had not been paying close attention. The papers that he had been carrying scattered everywhere, and the look in his eyes when he suddenly realized the situation was hysterical. I couldn't help laughing, even though the sound was slightly tinged with hysterical relief, and I bent to help him pick up his papers.

"I'm so sorry," I apologized, after I stopped giggling, "I wasn't fast enough when I saw you come around the corner."

He was smiling now too. "There is no need for apologies. I should have been more careful too. Would you wait for me in the kitchen? There is coffee or tea there, if you would like. I will be down in a few moments."

He actually smiled! I was so bowled over by the way his aspect was transformed with kindness that I couldn't help but smile back and do exactly as he said. I helped myself to a cup of tea and perched myself on one of the kitchen stools, resting my elbows on the counter. I wondered, with more excitement than trepidation, what he had in store for me today. Belatedly, I wondered if whatever he had planned would allow me to get any closer to freedom.

As I heard his footsteps come downstairs again, I wondered if he would mind some of the questions I had to ask him. Upon seeing the smile still on his face, I decided that there could be no real harm done if I did.

I took a sip of tea to give myself some countenance, and then asked, "What is your name?"

He, though the quick jerk of his head showed me that he had not been expecting my questions, did not loose his balance. "My name, such as it is, is Erik Troche."

"So you are French, then?" One of the foreign exchange students at my high school had had the same last name, so I assumed that it was fairly common.

He smiled. "I was born in France," he took a cup of coffee and, in a simple act of familiarity, took the stool on the opposite side of the counter, "if that answers your question. I am from too many places to remember them all."

Somewhere, deep in my mind, I was berating myself for not demanding my freedom, bolting for the door, or doing something else to show my displeasure for my current circumstances. And it was true that I was uncomfortable, but my thinking last night had soothed me. I was nervous, but at the same time, there was such a feeling of companionship between the two of us, that, regardless of situation, I felt that we would have been drawn together. As, indeed, we had been.

He started to talk of Paris, in a broad, general way, and I soon began to find myself insatiably curious. I had taken out travel books about Paris, the city had made such a wonderful impression on me the first time, and I wanted to know about each and every part of city life. He gave me an in-depth view of everything that he had seen and heard of in the city, with such vivacity that I was laughing and joking back at him with spirit. The…ease…of his conversation was something that I had not been expecting, but it was wonderful and calming. The feeling of camaraderie increased, and I was very much at ease.

Suddenly, he asked a very strange question.

"Christine, would you like to sing?"

I was silent, for a moment. The strangeness of the situation came back to me in a rush. I was thrown off balance, and I stammered for the answer.

"M-My mother was a singer," I looked up at him in confusion, "but I'm not. Um…I really can't sing at all. I'm terrible." The laugh that followed the declaration was awkward and loud.

His eyes bored into mine with a strange intensity. "I did not ask you if you could sing. I asked if you would like to sing. Because you can."

I found myself entirely unable to look away from him. Suddenly, his simple declaration seemed to make all my knowledge of my talents and my limitations completely worthless. For a moment, I actually believed that if he said I could sing, then I could. I sat in silence, suppressing the part of me that wanted to scream out '_yes!_', and settled for staring down at my teacup.

His hands took that away from me, and instead, I felt his oddly cold hand on mine, leading me away from the counter and towards that land of enchantment, the basement that housed his magnificent organ. I followed him, and as I did, I found myself relinquishing all hold on the reality that sat, waiting, upstairs. I was no longer Christine Day, accomplished dancer and aspiring librettist. I was whatever he saw me to be. And if that meant singer, it was singer.

But he did not take me to the organ. Instead, he took me very close to the stairs, where a grand piano sat, lit with some of the light filtering from above. I had not even noticed it the first time I had come here. But, of course, like everything else now, it seemed natural. Several candles also stood upon the instrument, lighting a pad of sheet music near the curve of the piano. That was where he stood me. I looked down at the music with blank misunderstanding. It was only when he struck the first chord that I realized where the music came from.

It was one of Fantine's songs from Les Miserables. My mother had sung this on Broadway; it was one of the first memories I had of her. My mind flew me back to that magical time, when I had watched her perform on stage, singing sadly and softly about the disillusionment that life had offered her. Without thought, without awareness of anything else, I opened my mouth and sang.

I didn't even hear my voice. I couldn't hear my voice. I was thinking of her, the way she had sung, and all of a sudden, my posture straightened. I arched my back, so the airflow could move smoothly from my lungs to my diaphragm, and opened my mouth, allowing the volume to swell up and come from my chest, not my nose. But I still heard no sound. It was the most natural thing in the world that I was standing in this basement and singing and crying at the same time. My mother was smiling at me from the stage, and my father was clapping for me. Finally, I had found the music. And both of them were so happy…so happy!

But the song was over. The only sound I heard now was the tears and the sobs. His arms were around me, and I turned and buried my face into his chest, breathing in his smell and crying and crying and crying.

I had never really cried for my mother. There had been too much to do, too much to see to and take care of. She was in the ground and dead and gone, to the world. To me, she had been on an extended vacation, and I had to take care of the house and the cooking and the cleaning and my schoolwork. And daddy was so lost without her. I couldn't make him feel even worse. I went on and on with no indication to anyone that I wasn't okay with my mother's death. But I had never, really cried.

I was seventeen years old and bawling into the shoulder of a man who had kidnapped me for love. And I felt so grateful to him. He had given me wings to fly, and he had allowed me to let go of my past. He knew everything about me, everything he needed to give me the peace of mind that I had always looked for. He was an angel. A guardian angel.

Erik!

I knew nothing about him!

I stopped crying and was just resting, with my eyes still closed, inside the warm and comforting circle of his arms. The place where I was resting my head was wet with tears, so I switched to his other shoulder, where it was soft and dry. I wrapped my own arms around him, and we just stood there. I sighed and opened my eyes, stepping back and looking into his.

"Thank you."

There was now nothing I did not owe to him. He had given me everything and asked for nothing in return.

"Thank you."

He led me to the side of the piano bench and I sat next to him as he played. I felt the muscles of his arms rippling underneath his shirt, and the fevered concentration that reverberated from his mind. I was softly contented.

When he stopped playing, I pressed my lips softly to his ear. The only other exposed part of his face was his mouth, essentially, and I did not want to make him feel as if I was forcing myself on him.

Thankfully, he didn't seem to think anything of the sort. In fact, if anything, he took my show as permission.

His hands, his fingers, those wonderful instruments, were on my neck and drawing me closer to him. Our lips met in an unbelievable expression of peace. The kiss was soft, and gentle, and if it had never before been possible to share understanding in that way, it now had become so.

I had never kissed or been kissed before. It was amazing.

I sensed the repression beneath that gentle kiss, but did not, at the moment, want to provoke it. This was something that could wait. Right now, I still felt emotionally fragile, and I should wait until I was ready.

He played me Beethoven's Ode to Joy, and I fell asleep next to him on the bench.

When I next woke up, I was in my bed, and a note crumpled on the pillow when I turned over.

_My dear Christine,_

_Please allow me to apologize for leaving you without prior notice, but you were so peaceful that I felt unable to disturb you. I was obliged to leave to visit a friend, but you are more than welcome to use any part of the house that you like. You will find that your door is unlocked. Please allow me to assure you that you are perfectly safe, and that I will return late this evening, and certainly after you have retired for the night._

_I remain always, your obedient and most humble servant._

I smelled the rose that he had left next to me, and, still holding it to my lips, I went out onto the balcony, which, had also been left unlocked.

The Paris evening was beautiful, and I swept the street with my eyes, wishing to see him looking up at me. Instead, I saw something that I had almost forgotten about.

Now, I was at least three stories up, and I had just awoken, but I knew Raoul when I saw him. His anxious face was searching the apartment—for me, I knew—and for one wild moment, I almost hid from his gaze. Somehow, the idea of seeing Raoul was akin to betrayal. But then, I reminded myself that I had been kidnapped. Somehow, the sensible part of me had skipped over that, and I looked down at Raoul with infinitely more pain than pleasure. Several days, or even hours ago I would have seen him with relief, but now…

He waved frantically to me when he noticed that he had gotten my attention, and he motioned that I should come down to the ground floor. When I did, I saw that a note had been shoved underneath the door. While I still did not have the code to the front door, I looked through the windows on either side of it and did not see him anywhere. I felt a slight—very slight—pang of disappointment, and opened the letter to see what he had to say.

_My dear Christine—_

I winced, and tried again.

_My dear Christine,_

_Meg and I have come to Paris to help you. I know that you must be afraid, but you must help us do this. Erik will not harm you, put your mind at ease as to that, but the utmost caution is required to get you out of your current circumstances. I will try to contact you again._

_I will think of you always Christine. Be strong._

_Raoul_

I folded up the letter, put it in its envelope, and walked back upstairs, hardly knowing what to think. What was I to do now?


	16. Chapter Sixteen

Euphoria. There was no other word for it. Breathless, senseless, happiness. It was the first time I could ever remember feeling this way. I could not even think about what had just happened; I felt like a child, worrying about a good dream evaporating with the morning mist. If I thought about it too much, maybe it would disappear forever!

When she slept, and I finally noticed, I carried her to her room and sat beside her bed, just contemplating the peaceful, yet exuberant expression on her face. Even when she slept, she possessed such an innate and beautiful _life_ that watching her sleep was one of the most absorbing things I had ever seen. I wanted to touch her, to invite again that wonderful caress of the flesh which she had encouraged. The sensation was so strong as to almost make me forget the honor that I owed to her, but finally I conquered the feeling and left her to herself, making sure that she knew where I had gone.

I, for the moment, possessed too much energy that refused to remain at peace. I walked the streets of Paris from the Bois to the Bastille, several times, without feeling any diminishing in that boundless strength that flowed from the memory of her kiss. One kiss. In my whole life, thirty-seven years worth of aching, painful existence, one kiss was all I had to show for my relationships with human beings.

For the first time, I felt nothing but hope for the future. If I could just take care of the few loose ends that attended Christine's break from the old life, then there could be no obstacles in our way. The first of these loose ends was the torture and death of the de Chagny boy, which I looked forward to with unalloyed anticipation. The other, was Nadir. I was not sure whether to keep him alive, or kill him as well, but I supposed I could wait until I could ascertain how deeply his betrayal ran.

The way to assure myself of that, of course, was to pay him a visit. Gentleman that he was, he would have Chagny stay with him, at his house, not only for the sake of manners but also for the sake of security. Nadir knew how to face me in battle. Raoul, on his own, would be a far too easy target.

Nadir's apartment, which he had refused to allow me to pay for, was in a small neighborhood on the outskirts of the city. Nadir was not a highly social man, for he had no one to associate with. He had been exiled from his country for kindnesses shown to me—oh, nothing so dramatic as a formal exile—but he had been advised, for his own health, never to return to his country or his family again. I knew that the loss of his beloved wife and his young son weighed heavily on him, since neither of them could flee from the revolutionary Iran, but his misery, as could be imagined, made him easier for me to speak to and relate to. His loyalty to me, through all of these trials, was nothing short of amazing. I was reluctant to kill him, as he was probably the one friend I had ever really been able to rely upon throughout my life.

The walk to his house was quiet and peaceful. It was late, probably past 11, even though I did not verify that, and most of the houses were dark and silent. Here and there a child cried, or a party wound down, but it was a weeknight in Paris, and most people had jobs to attend to in the morning. To the few people who walked the streets, I was probably a husband with a late work shift, coming home to a sympathetic wife and a cold dinner. I clenched my fists.

But the living room of Nadir's apartment was still lit when I found myself there. I concealed myself on the other side of the street, losing myself in the shadows, as I am quite capable of doing, to observe the scene without risk.

De Chagny was spread out on the floor, in a heated argument with both Nadir and a young girl whose identity I could not, at the moment, figure out. I could not distinguish voices, but Raoul seemed to be violently opposing the quiet counsel of the other two. But I found all my curiosity as to their arguments ebbing away as I started at the blond-haired girl and tried to place who she was. She was far too young to be one of Nadir's…associates…and I had never seen her with de Chagny before. And yet, she was familiar.

A name came to me out of the blue. _Meg Tabin_.

This…complicated things.

I stayed only long enough to get a sense of how the house worked and who was staying where. There was nothing else I could do with such an inconvenient hiding spot. Later, if I wanted, I could go back and get a closer look at things, but quite frankly, at the moment I was a little too off balance to think clearly.

I cursed my shortsightedness, which seemed to be the one culprit in the matter at hand. Meg Tabin, Christine's best friend, perhaps, was now in a position to be incredibly irritating to me. And I could do nothing about it. I had never killed a woman, and Meg Tabin was not someone that I would care to begin with. I had only killed Christine's father because he was not worthy of the immense love that she bore him. Unfortunately, Meg was another matter entirely.

Really, I was furious with myself. The idea that Christine's friend would not have come to help her was ludicrous. Of course, I had had no way of knowing that Meg even knew. But, unfortunately, as I had learned before, there was no way of predicting every eventuality, and this was just another situation that had to be dealt with in the matter of course. Exactly how I was going to deal with her was nothing that I cared to contemplate at this moment. I sighed. I was almost certain that Meg, as well as Raoul, would have to come to a sticky end.

It seemed unjust. I did so try to be fair, but sometimes there were circumstances that pushed me otherwise. I felt as I had as a child. _Honestly, I didn't mean to…_

I clamped down on those memories firmly. I had no place for them in my mind or in my heart. To admit such feelings was to invite disaster at the first opportunity. And now was most certainly not the time for mistakes. I would need the cold, calculating precision that I had become known for. Without it, I was a rank amateur, and slaughter would be my only refuge. There might be a way that I could get away from this situation without being caught between a rock and a hard place.

After all, Nadir did not know _all_ my secrets.

I returned to the house very early that morning, having exhausted myself and my mind with relentless walking and thinking about the situation that lay at hand. From the way I had heard de Chagny speak, I could only assume that Christine had, in fact, gotten the address correct in her letter. And there was cause for even more alarm. He had, in fact, already managed to contact her, even though he had received no reply to his note. I felt fury rise up in me, fury against Nadir, against Raoul, and, most frighteningly of all, against Christine.

Why, oh why, I berated myself, could I just have refrained from my angry bloodlust in the case of that annoying boy? Had I just taken Christine and left, he might never have known where I was.

And Christine! Treacherous siren! After the multiple gifts I had given her, the respect, the freedom, the _music_…! And now she was betraying me by returning to that landlocked clod, after all I had offered her?

Anger very nearly carried me in a murderous rage to her room, where my hands would most certainly have broken her thin little neck, but my hands were on the doorknob when I realized how futile anger would be against her. After all, she was young, and inexperienced. I could allow her several faults. But I would not have her in possession of that letter. I would know what it was that he had to say to her.

I removed the little bottle of chloroform from my pocket and drenched my handkerchief with it. Not, of course, that I needed a handkerchief, myself, but it was a thing that every gentleman carried around. And if my handkerchief had another, important, use, then who was to complain? At all times, I had usually strived to be a gentleman.

She was sound asleep when she woke, and I might not have even bothered with the drug at all, but the idea of her awakening while I rummaged through her things was repugnant to me. I would not have her look at me with horror and fear. Not now, not when I was so close to winning her favorable regard.

She subsided into a deeper sleep with hardly a whisper. All of a sudden, her clenched fists relaxed and her breathing grew slower and steady. My heart ached for her as I saw her this helpless, this vulnerable. And I indulged myself this one time, lifting her comatose hand from the sheet and pressing the smooth skin against my lips. Even that small touch was enough to almost shatter my ironclad resolve, so I replaced it against the sheet very quickly, stepping away from her and beginning my search of her room.

Christine had touched very little in her bedroom. I knew she would not use it often; it was the room least like her. The bathroom would be likewise, an unlikely spot for a clandestine note from her lover. My hands clenched as my mind tortured me with this image, but I forced it from my mind and continued towards the study, which I had fashioned to be a perfect haven for her creative genius.

This room showed signs, at last, of human habitation. Some of the books had been switched around on her shelves, and some were already stacked either near the desk or on a coffee table beside the small sofa. Pride and Prejudice already looked well-thumbed, as it lay, with a bookmark stuck between the pages, half open and abandoned on the sofa.

I discovered the letter fairly quickly. Christine had been uncharacteristically careless with this precious bit of treachery…she had left it in an open drawer. But the room itself showed signs of a very disturbed mind. Things were left open and abandoned everywhere, and though she might be very forgetful, leaving drawers open and books spread was not her way at all.

My murderous anger almost made it impossible for me to read the note beyond the greeting. How dare he, how _dare _he call her that?

But I controlled myself impressively, reassuring myself that care and attention to details were all that were necessary to assuring that his handsome neck would not be long unbroken.

The rest of the note was fairly innocuous. At least that arrogant boy had not been too confident waving promises and assurances about. All he had told her was that I would not hurt her; and, it irritated me that he was completely correct. I would never hurt her, in my right mind, that is. The remembrance of just how much pain I could cause her when infuriated was shameful.

I debated with myself whether or not to let her keep the note. On the one hand, if I took it, she would know that I knew, and it might make her think twice about any future actions. On the other hand, if I took the letter, it would be letting her know that I had betrayed her trust and her property. It was a very tricky dilemma. For the present, I decided to leave it alone. I would merely have to watch both parties concerned to make sure that nothing more dangerous entered Christine's hands. I could not trust her completely yet, for she did not know her own mind.

Her drugged sleep would continue for several hours yet, hours that I could use to begin thinking over my next course of action. Nadir and the de Chagny boy had to be dealt with first, somehow keeping Meg Tabin away from it and frightening her sufficiently to make her return home.

There was so much to think about…

It was noon before I went to open Christine's door. Of course, I had taken breakfast up to her as usual, while she showered in the morning, but I had spent all the rest of the time thinking of my possible courses of action. At last I think I had arrived at a suitable conclusion.

Raoul would die first, and quickly. Nadir, with his wonderful Persian hospitality, would be forced to send Meg home. He could not, after all, risk her death as well. Nadir on his own was easy enough to deal with. He would try to kill me, of course, but he was old, and he was tired. He was no match for me in any case, and he did not have the motivation that I had.

I still longed to make Raoul's death painful and slow, but at the moment I was not exactly sure how I could go about that. At any point, I knew that I could kill him, but simply killing him would not assuage the glorious feeling of vengeance. The exact manner of his death had to be an artistic concern, first and foremost. In any case, it gave me something wonderfully pleasant to consider when I had nothing else to do.

Christine was in her study, facing the window, when I came in. The folded sheet of paper that she slipped between the pages of her book as she turned around wrenched at my heart, for I certainly knew what it was. It amazed me that despite her conflicting emotions, she managed still to put on a wonderful show.

She smiled at me, her manner a mixture of humility and shyness.

"I never got a chance to thank you," she said, tackling a difficult subject, "for yesterday, I mean. I guess…"

She ran out of words, and merely stood there, avoiding my eyes and puzzling out a way to say what she meant to say.

"I guess I never got a chance to say goodbye to her," she continued, "there was always so much to do and think about. After the funeral, life had to go on. And Daddy was so sad…"

There were tears shimmering in her eyes and her lips were shaking, but she turned her eyes on me with a renewed strength.

"I want to see him again."

How I wished that he had been worthy of her sight! If he were, then he would not be where he was right now, cold and dead in the ground.

Christine sighed, noticing the confusing denial in my eyes. "I just want to talk to him again. Please," she said, as if imploring her jailer, "please. If he can't find me, who knows what he'll think. I swear, I'll just tell him that I'm okay. I won't betray you, I would _never_!"

The vehemence of her last word almost convinced me that she would not betray me. How it _wrenched_ at my heart that there was no way to grant her request!

Better to tell her quickly, and get it over with.

"He died, Christine."

Her eyes grew wider, and her mouth fell open, almost as if she wanted to question me, but the word never reached her lips.

"Another heart attack," I clarified gently, "it so often happens."

She looked at me, searching the depths of my eyes, and never had I been so terrified of someone finding the truth. I was actually nervous that she would see something there that would let her know that I was lying. I had always been secure in my abilities before, but she seemed capable of seeing through my flimsy excuses.

Her head wobbled, and wavered, and finally she nodded just before her chin sank to her chest and I could no longer see her face. She clutched her book to her chest and turned towards the window, shivering and tightening her arms until her knuckles turned white. She made no sound.

Suddenly she turned on me. "I want to go home." she declared, her eyes frighteningly dry and her voice intense with anger and tinged with hysteria. "I _want to go home_!"

I shook my head. "I cannot let you, Christine."

Here the floodgates of her anger burst open. "You won't let me? I couldn't be with him when he died. _Because of you_! You could never understand what he meant to me! He _was_ my life!" Dry sobs wracked her chest and nearly doubled her over with their intensity. She cried without tears for several minutes, but when she recovered herself, she glared at me with a cold-eyed intensity.

"I _will_ go home."

I shook my head and smiled sadly.

And I was shocked to see that her intention did not falter.

The battle, then, was joined on both sides.

The sharp _click_ of the key in the lock was less satisfying than it had ever been. If I listened at the door, I could hear her long, drawn out groans, and I felt as if I were imprisoning a wounded animal. I sighed. If I could do anything else, I truly would. I had gone too far, however, and now, the two of us must play the game to its finish. The five of us, rather. I had thought that I was in control of the game. But, as so often happens to the prideful, the best-laid plans come to naught. I could not control the human spirit. And I ought to have known that I could not control hers.

Remorse was replaced by anger and frustration. I had never been defeated by anyone before! I was certainly not in the mood to begin now. I could control them, and I would. My plans would still go through as I had intended them too. The mistakes I had made along the way—and I had made many—were inconsequential. The future was where the solution lay, and somehow—I regarded it again with childish faith—everything would turn out right.

The first step towards the solution was to kill that boy.

Night was my shadow, my cloak and my dagger. He would never see me come and no one would see me leave. Tonight would be his last sunset and he would never see another dawn. The time for games was over. Death guaranteed me safety, and, as I had foreseen, I would have to abandon artistry, but at this point, I did not care about the slaughter. Like a cornered animal, I would react violently, if that was all I could do. Then, it would be done.

Nadir's entire household was sleeping peacefully as I entered it, moving like a determined specter from the bedroom, where Meg slept, to the living room, where the golden boy and my former friend were resting.

For a moment, I stood poised above him, the 12-inch dagger in my hand reflecting the ambient light from the street and casting an eerie glow upon the doomed man's throat.

Then, with a motion almost too swift to be discernable by human eyes, I plunged the dagger through his windpipe.

The fountain of blood and the eruption of choked screams were beautiful. I wondered when I had lost touch with this simple yet elegant method of murder. Unfortunately, though, I was not in a position to admire my work. Nadir was up already, and, though he was confused and hazed with sleep, the sight of the young man choking on the floor and the shadow of a demon hovering over him was enough to snap anyone into action.

I ran past Meg in the hall, shoving her—admittedly roughly—against the wall as I made a run for the door, since, at that point, I knew that Nadir would shoot me in the back, if he had to. I was out in another moment, and the raised voices in the house convinced me that Nadir would rather call for an ambulance than try to catch me.

And indeed, I was merely four blocks down the street before an ambulance blazed past me and turned towards his quiet apartment. I smiled. Whether or not the boy lived or died, Meg would most certainly be out of the way. And even if he did, somehow, miraculously survive, he would never be the same. A replacement would be necessary for his vocal chords, his trachea, and he would most likely need new grafts for the ruined skin. But he would be lucky to survive the loss of blood on the way to the hospital.

A most profitable night all around.

When I returned to the house, I sent out calls to all my staff. I wanted to be out of this apartment as soon as possible. Perhaps one of my estates in Moscow or St. Petersburg would serve to elude the ineffable Nadir. There were some holdings of mine which were almost undetectable; linked to a different name and whatnot. Besides, Christine would be most anxious to receive further communications from a man who…was no longer accessible. Yes, a change in scene would be best all around.

The man on the other line asked no questions, unless he needed to reassure himself of my wishes. He, a trained senior member of my staff, knew well enough that questions in his line of employ were dangerous, to say the least.

How to introduce this change to Christine was troublesome. She was angry enough to fight me, in any situation, and her natural strength and sense of self made controlling her even more delicate. I was sure that I could threaten her enough to get her to obey me, but was that what I really wanted?

I was beginning to understand how difficult it would be for the two of us to be together.


	17. Chapter Seventeen

Blood. There was blood everywhere. It had soaked into the carpet, even by the time I'd gotten to the living room. The dishtowel that Nadir was holding around Raoul's throat was already soaked in the sickly sweet stuff. I took one look at him and felt like I was going to throw up, right there. I _hated_ blood.

I dashed to the kitchen and grabbed the phone off the hook, wondering briefly what number to call. Did 911 work in Europe too? Nadir called some numbers to me and I dialed them, barely hearing the voice on the other end of the phone telling me to be calm and tell him where I was. In the end, I managed, but I was verging steadily closer to hysteria, and when Nadir called me to bring him another towel and to help him hold the convulsing body down, I only controlled myself by remembering that it could very well mean Raoul's life if I didn't.

The two of us labored over the body—for life was rapidly ebbing away from him—in breathless silence. Even Raoul's stubborn and heartrending groans were beginning to subside, and though my ears had rung with them before, the loss of them was absolutely terrifying.

Suddenly, the sound of a siren outside the door. Suddenly, Nadir was gone, the body was gone, and I was left, knees soaked in blood, kneeling on the same place as I had been before. I put my face in my hands, even though they too were soaking wet, and sobbed. I was sure he was dead.

Sleep was impossible after that, but so was everything else. I looked at the hopeless stains on the carpet, and I wanted to clean them up, but I couldn't bring myself to go near them. And yet, I couldn't go out of the room. I paced between living room and kitchen, watching the phone and waiting for it to ring. The minutes slid by, the seconds measured by my frantic footfalls, and I still couldn't do anything. I remembered Nadir's cell phone number, but I was afraid to use the line. What would happen if he called me at the same time?

The blood dried on my hands and my face, and flakes of it chipped away and fluttered to the ground, littering the carpet and the tile. I felt disgusting, so I finally forced myself into the bathroom to scrub it off. The moment my hands and face were clean, the phone rang.

I must have launched myself across the rooms, because the first ring hadn't stopped before I caught the phone.

"Nadir?" I gasped, fingers turning white from the pressure of my fingers.

"Meg," Nadir's voice inflected no questions, no comforts, no emotions. Nausea twisted my stomach. "He's dead."

I think I must have screamed. I know I must have cried. But I couldn't remember. I didn't want to. I was too afraid.

I remember the police, or Surete, as they are called in Paris, coming to investigate the murder. Unfortunately, there were absolutely no traces of the assailant left to be found. He had come and gone like a malevolent shadow, or like the Grim Reaper himself. I answered questions when they were put to me, and I know I must not have made any sense whatsoever. But there was no sense to be made. Eventually, the police left, unable to convict either of us, but also unable to find the man who had committed the crime.

Nadir made me cup after cup of scalding hot tea. After the third one, the roof of my mouth and my tongue had ceased to have any kind of feeling. That was good. Anything that made me numb, that seared the inside of my head, in order to stop me thinking, was good.

"Why didn't you tell them?" It was the one thing I could think to ask.

"About Erik?" He sighed, shaking his head, "Erik will be long gone, by this point."

I choked on the tea. "Gone?" The word and its horrible implications echoed in my mind. "Gone! With Christine?"

He nodded gravely. "No hunted animal stays in a shallow burrow when it can dig deeper to save itself. There are holdings of his that are unknown to me, and to those he will take Christine."

The somber tone in his voice filled me with unimaginable dread. "Is there nothing we can do? Are we just going to sit here?" The idea was unthinkable. I had crossed an ocean, seen death and destruction, and the very man who had murdered, in this house, was taking my best friend away?

The desperation in my voice must have amused him, for he gave a dry little chuckle. "I did not say we were going to give up. The hunt shall merely become more difficult now. First we must take care of…"

He seemed unable to go on. "We have to bury Raoul." I concluded, as if I were reading a part in a soap opera season finale.

Nadir nodded again. "His parents are dead, his brother was murdered…"

I was shocked when I realized that there might be no close relatives at the funeral. I shook my head numbly and took another swallow of tea, my eyes tearing up when the scorching liquid slid down my throat. I really didn't want to go to the funeral. I didn't want to see Raoul lying in an open coffin, or put into the ground like a doddering old man who had lived a full life and was surrounded with crying grandchildren. As it was, he was taken in the best years of his life, and…why? The question didn't bear thinking about.

As it was, the funeral was well attended, everyone lamenting the end of the de Chagny line. It was a solemn affair, and I don't think that my eyes were dry at any part of it. Eventually, the tears were coming down so steadily that I didn't even bother wiping them away. At least I was spared the necessity of talking to anyone. I hardly knew the first word of French, so Nadir, after several choice words, hustled us both out of the church and away from the stone cold reception after the burial.

Once outside in the warm evening air, I took one deep breath and finally swiped all the tears away from my face. Nadir offered me a moist cloth, and I scrubbed away the salt tracks that had accumulated.

We sat in the silent car for several minutes, while I composed myself, and he made a few phone calls. As he had divulged to me earlier, he had several men in Erik's employ willing to talk for the right price. I understood that the only way that Nadir could afford that kind of leverage was by drawing from the stipend that he received as chief of police in Iran. That left his resources rather strapped, but at least it gave us a good lead as to where to try next.

Nadir got off the phone next to me and heaved the most despairing sigh that I had ever heard from him. I was instantly concerned. When Nadir knew that something was wrong, something was definitely wrong.

"What is it?"

He looked at me, his expression almost unreadable. "I had hoped he would take her to Russia or Yugoslavia. He has many ties there. But, unfortunately, fortune led him differently."

"Where," I whispered, "where?"

"Iran."

At first, my heart leaped for joy. Iran would make things easier! After all, Nadir was Iranian! And his family was old, well-respected, and surely his connections in the police force there would help him. I didn't understand how this could be a drawback.

My face showed the question, so he clarified.

"I have been banished from my country. My wife, my son…they would suffer if I were to return."

For a moment, I was only horrified by the terrible chance that had put Nadir in this situation. But then I realized the truth.

"Erik," I said, shaking my head, "he did this on purpose."

Nadir nodded. "When Erik plays a game, he plays to win."

I wanted to scream. "This isn't a game!" I cried, punching the dashboard with all the strength I could muster. "This is my friend's life!" My rage boiled off, leaving grief behind again. "What are we going to do now?"

He looked at me as if he didn't understand what I was saying. "Do? We are going to do exactly what we intended to do. We are going to rescue your friend."

I looked at him. "Why are you doing this? You could lose everything, and you don't even know Christine."

"I don't know Christine," he agreed, "but I do know Erik. And I should have helped him years ago. I should have stopped him from becoming what he did. I should have done more for him. And now," he said, regretfully, "he has gone too far. I cannot let him do this. Murder, kidnapping…Christine is now entirely at his mercy."

I shuddered. What would he do to her…?

We sat in silence, for a while longer. I was trying to process this whole thing, this whole horrible day. It suddenly seemed like too much. When I had come, I had not expected it to be anything like this. One person was dead. And now, Christine seemed likely to be out of our reach.

As if reading my mind, Nadir asked the fatal question. "Meg, I can send you home. This is more than you should have to bear. Would you like to return?"

In my current state of mind, one part of me wanted to scream 'yes!'. The other berated this weaker side for chickening out. Truth be told, I had been warned about the dangers. But also, I had never really believed them. I had thought…what had I thought? That we would just show up at Christine's doorstep, take her back, and that Erik would let her go without a fight? Her whom he had fought so hard to have in the first place?

I felt sick, and I couldn't answer. I shook my head, and Nadir started the car, but I was assailed by doubts as we drove along the road, back to his apartment, and the two voices in my head raged against each other, and by the time we had reached the house again, I was no closer to a solution than I had been when we started.

Nadir promptly retired to a small study when we got in the house, using his cell phone exclusively, and though I was curious, I was so tired, I didn't bother to try to eavesdrop on the conversation.

I wanted to go home. For the first time, I was afraid, and I doubted that what I was doing was right. What happened if my mother and my father never saw me again? I was afraid that I might actually die doing this. It seemed odd, feeling like that. I had never been so scared before. Technically, I could think of a reason for it. I was now face-to-face with my own mortality. Seeing Raoul die was something that I had never expected. If this Erik could kill him, what was to stop him from killing me?

But, more importantly, was I going to abandon Christine to him? My best friend? And only because I was scared of what might happen to me? Christine would never, _ever_ do that! I could imagine her now, alone and scared, thinking herself cast off from everyone and everything. I wondered if she knew about her father or Raoul.

One thing that all these reflections allowed me to determine; I would not leave Christine alone to this man. If he thought she was alone and friendless, then he had another thing coming. I wouldn't go home until she was safe, and we were going back to our little dreamy pocket of New England together.

Everything was put into motion very quickly. Once Nadir realized that I would not be dissuaded from my plan to accompany him to the very end, we set out for Iran almost immediately. More specifically, I should say, we headed for Tehran. Apparently that was not only where Erik had a house, but it was also where there would be most danger for Nadir. His family was also located in Tehran, and naturally, it being the capital city would make it the most patrolled and monitored by the police. Once again I was forced to admire the tenacity with which Nadir adhered to his determination. If the lives of my family were at stake…I was not sure how willing I would be to help a total stranger.

The plane ride there was long and uneventful. Neither he nor I were in moods to be in conversation, so I spent most of the time alone with my thoughts. Most of them were despairing, and I tried everything that I could think of to turn my mind away from them, but the situation demanded my attention.

So far, I had been told by Nadir that we were neck-and-neck with Erik and Christine. We knew that his destination was fixed as Tehran, and other than that, we had been told that he intended to leave as soon as possible, but Nadir's informants told him that we had the advantage of a day. Which meant that Erik and Christine would not be departing until tomorrow. I stared out the dark window. We were on the red eye flight, nonstop from Paris to Tehran.

Unfortunately, no one in Paris could tell us where exactly the house in Tehran would be. Erik guarded some of his secrets extraordinarily well, and though Nadir knew of many of his haunts in Iran, it was less than likely—so he told me—that we would be able to find him there. Tehran was a big city—some 12 million residents—and the chance that we would find them at all before—or after—they arrived was slim.

Nadir's cell was ringing again, and he answered it, but this time he spoke in Farsi, and I couldn't understand a word. I hoped that some of his friends left in Tehran would be willing to help him, but at this point, the feeling was faint. I felt numb, and the crushing exhaustion of this past day was almost too much to bear. I wanted my eyes to slide shut, so I could sleep and forget, but it seemed impossible. My brain was active, thinking, worrying, planning, and my body was forced to be active along with it.

Nadir had only been willing to take me along on this stage of the journey because he said I would be helpful if Christine was unwilling to leave Erik. This line troubled me, since I had heard it once before, from Raoul. It seemed so strange…I knew my friend, and I knew that she would have been trying to escape all this time. The idea that Christine would hesitate, when given the chance, was laughable. So why did it trouble me so?

Stockholm Syndrome. I researched what I knew of it in my head, which was painfully little. But I knew—or assumed—that it couldn't happen to someone who knew better, who had strength of mind and character. I knew that Christine definitely had that strength. So why did both Nadir and Raoul consider it such a threat?

I found my thoughts drawn back one more time to Erik. They must assume, then, that he had the power to make her forget herself. To mentally purge away her identity. I shivered. I didn't think that anyone had that power. Once again, I felt my stomach roil over the thought of my best friend being in such a horrible situation. I burned with anxiety…I had to help get her away from him!

Nadir shut his phone with a satisfied _click_, to punctuate my thought. I saw the hope in his face and felt my heart leap. My eyes begged him to tell me what he had discovered, and he did so, with barely repressed enthusiasm.

"Allah favors us, Meg," he said, with the jovial expression that I had known before, "there are some among my friends who will help us. They have been tracking Erik for a long time, and they believe they have found several houses that belong to him under different names. One of these houses is being opened up, in preparation for residents."

I let a smile come to my face. "So he might be going there?"

"_Might_," Nadir emphasized, "but a very likely 'might'."

I settled back and felt my eyes crash closed as my thoughts were finally laid to rest.

Tehran was a big, busy city. And I disliked it at first sight. Maybe it was because I saw it through the eyes of a jet-lagged visitor who had just come from Paris. Perhaps it was because we arrived there just at the start of a new day. I think, however, it was because Tehran was a discomfiting mix of the modern and the ancient, and because it was so very, very far from home.

Nadir hurried me into a cab and paid someone to run back and fetch our bags. Being as it was now early July (we had been in Paris for longer than I had thought) the heat, even in the early hours of the day, was oppressive. Even in the shade of the cab, I felt the weight of the atmosphere pressing down on me, pushing all the moisture out of my body in the form of disgusting droplets of sweat.

After about ten minutes of uncomfortable waiting, he slid into the seat next to me and barked orders to the wizened cabbie in the front seat.

"We will arrive at my home in twenty minutes, Meg," he assured me, ever the solicitous gentleman. He handed me a bottle of something ice-cold, in a bottle with red-and-white labeling.

I lifted my head off the seatback. "What's this?" I asked, feeling obstinate and mulish.

"Coke."

I stared at the bottle, with its strange labeling, and suddenly burst out laughing. I cracked open the bottle and took a long drink. The carbonated iciness slid down my throat and I sighed with contentment.

"It's good."

"I am glad."

We drove in silence from then on, and I didn't notice the tension that was steadily building up in him until he ordered—I assume he ordered it—the driver to pull around the back of the house instead of parking in front.

His eyes looked hunted as they darted from left to right, and he pulled all our luggage from the trunk of the car with one hand as he gave me the money to pay the driver with. I sensed his anxiety, and almost flung the unfamiliar bills at the leering driver before fleeing with him into the basement of the house.

He left our bags in a heap in the basement and flicked on the lights. A sparse underground space opened up to us, and I saw that two cots had been placed there. I wondered if we were ever going to be able to use the aboveground area when the basement door above us slid open.

Gentle steps descended, and I found myself looking into the eyes of a beautiful Muslim woman, who smiled gently at me and ran directly for Nadir. He caught her up in his arms and twirled her around, and it was only when he kissed her—and I turned my head away in embarrassment—that I realized that this must be his wife.

Horror gripped my chest. He'd come back to his home, then? He was putting his own wife and son in danger? From now on, I promised myself, whatever Nadir wanted me to do, was already done.

We had dinner in that dark little cellar, Nadir, his wife, his son, and I. Mashid, his wife, assured me that whatever risks they ran were more than welcome, but I could tell that she only said that because she was thrilled for whatever reason had brought her husband back to her. Reza, the little thing, was too happy to see his father to even consider anything else. Of course, we said nothing too pointed around him.

I felt strangely comfortable, sitting in that basement, on beautiful embroidered cushions, eating fragrant rice and chicken cooked in lemon sauce. Whatever bad introduction I had had to Tehran now seemed done away with. Of course, I had a full stomach now, and that probably did wonders for my state of mind, but maybe I had also soaked up some of Nadir's boundless enthusiasm. I _could_ believe now that rescuing Christine was not going to be as difficult as I thought. And though I wouldn't make the mistake of thinking it was going to be easy, I also refused to allow myself to worry about all the things that could go wrong.

In order to give Nadir and his wife some time alone together, I took Reza up to his room and played with him for several hours before his parents came to tuck him in. The boy was very docile and we played with his enormous collection of Matchbox cars, and I showed him how to make a downhill slide with his blocks, so he could race his cars down, without needing to exchange one word. Which was good, considering that I didn't know the first word of Farsi, and he was still in awe over my very pale skin.

I went to sleep still tired and very sad, but my heart was lighter than it had any reason to be. Nadir assured me that tomorrow, we would do what could


	18. Chapter Eighteen

I was so angry, so furious with myself. God, what had I been doing here? All this time! Without one word of wanting out, without saying that he had no right to keep me here! Looking back on my actions now, I couldn't even fathom them. I'd gotten a letter to Raoul, and that was pretty much all. I'd taken a note from him, as well. But I hadn't taken advantage of any of the opportunities I'd had to just run from him in the street, screaming for help. I'd known enough French, that hadn't been the problem.

Where had I gone wrong? I balled up my fist and slammed it into the pounded pillow.

I'd gone wrong, I cursed myself, because I had started to pity that…that…bastard! Because I'd started to care about him! Because I'd believed him when he said that he loved me…because I started to think…because I had thought…

My mind turned around and around on itself like a cornered animal. I cried out and started to cry afresh. Oh, God, it was so hopeless!

Like Persephone imprisoned in hell, I'd had my chance to escape. Unfortunately, like that doomed girl, I'd grown hungry. Not for food, but for companionship and love in a hostile environment, and I'd taken it from my captor, no matter that he had denied me what I craved in the first place. What a helpless idiot!

Now, I was alone. So what if Raoul were looking for me? How could he ever find me, especially if Erik had his way and we did leave Paris? Hopeless, hopeless.

I was frustrated enough that I stuffed a pillow in my mouth so that I could scream. But I'd screamed so much before that my throat was cracked and parched, and I could barely get the sound out.

Eventually though, I stopped screaming, kicking, and crying. I felt purged and exhausted…and filthy.

Stepping into the bathroom, I ran a wet washcloth over my face, letting the cool water soak into my eyelids. I sighed, filling a glass and drinking deep. It wasn't enough to actually heal my parched throat, but it was a start.

I sat myself down firmly on the bed and tried to think. There were so many desperate resolutions and half-formed plans in my head that trying to think of them all at once was actually giving me a migraine.

No matter what I thought, what I felt about Erik…I had to get away from him. If I didn't, and soon, then I would be in even deeper trouble. Somehow, he could take all of my resolutions and make me forget about them, with the merest twitch of his smile or a touch of his finger on the piano. No, it wasn't just his music. It was his presence, his being, that so entranced me.

I shook my head. This was not the way to think! But I had to, before I made the wrong decision. I wasn't quite as stupid as I'd been telling myself. If all I wanted to do was make a fast decision, then I really could screw myself over later. My mind right now was screaming for safety. It was telling me to get out, as soon as possible. And it was probably right.

Still, my heart…my heart was sending me a very different message. Erik was alone…so alone. He thought that I could save him, that I could love him. And, if I did leave him, what would that do to him? I cursed myself for it, but I had no desire to see him hurt, I had no wish to see him pay for what he had done to me.

I knew, deep down, that if I left, it would wound him deeply, perhaps even irrevocably. And yet, my mind said, isn't that what he deserves? He stole you, let your father die alone, committed all these crimes against you…

But he has done so much for me, too! The book, the advice, the music…all of these show a great and generous heart beneath the exterior of darkness! I can help him, I can save him…

I knew that it was that very potential that made me so afraid. Not that I could hurt him, but that I might be the one thing that stood between his soul and further darkness. I was seventeen years old; surely that job couldn't fall to me? Was I ready to become a sacrifice, live the rest of my life with those eyes, that voice? Was I ready to risk all that I was on the off chance that I could save a very compelling man?

I knew I could. I knew that I wanted to. But I knew I couldn't do it, at all, without knowing what lay beneath the mask.

Now was the time.

Servants had been in and out of my room all day, packing my clothes. I sat on the bed, aimlessly flipping through the pages of the complete fairy tales of the Brothers Grimm. Finally, activity died down, and the whole house settled under the shadow of brooding anticipation.

Despite the bright sunlight of a beautiful afternoon, I was chilled and frightened. How would he react, when I pulled it from his face? What would he say and do?

I thought and planned a thousand different ways to say it. I thought and imagined a hundred thousand ways he could respond to it. Most of them made me shudder. I felt my palms grow sweaty. Soon, soon, he would come for me soon.

The click of the key in the lock made me want to be sick. I climbed anxiously from the bed and stood, with the end bench between me and the door. I rubbed my hand on my jeans, hoping that they would behave and stop shaking so much. No luck.

He looked terrifying. Not that his aspect had changed much from the stiff-lipped solemnity of yesterday, but his manner had grown more imposing, more frightening. I knew both sides of him, but I was still terrified.

There were niggling doubts in my head. Could I spend the rest of my life with this man and his dark, unpredictable temper?

We stood at odds, for what seemed to be hours. I wanted to speak…I really did. But his manner…was just so cold. He seemed to be a different person than the one I had come to know these past few days, when our relationship seemed to have so much promise, save for the fact that it was constructed on a federal crime.

"I hope you are ready," he said firmly, not meeting my eyes, "you may take any books that you wish with you."

"Erik," I swallowed, nearly choking on my tongue, "do you love me?"

That…was _not_ the question I'd intended to ask. It was too late to take it back now though. I swallowed again and forced myself onward. When he did not answer, but looked away from my eyes, I asked again.

"Erik…_do you love me_?" I cried. "I want to know! I'm _this_ close," I measured with my forefinger and thumb, "to making the biggest decision of my life, and I want to know the truth. Swear to me, say it to my face!"

He was silent. I was about to burst into tears, but I controlled them and ran forward, grasping his hands with my own, hardly noticing that they trembled in my grasp. When he refused to meet my gaze, I lifted one hand to the side of his face, feeling the contrast of smooth skin and leather-like mask.

Suddenly, as a wave of anger gripped me, I slipped my thumb underneath the edge of his mask and yanked it upwards. It came off easily enough in my hands, for I had snapped the string that lay concealed under his hair. The sight that met my eyes…well…

His skin looked like it had actually withered on the bone. It was as yellow as a sheet of aged parchment, with blue veins criss-crossing it like errant dabbles of ink. His eyes, always deeply shadowed by his overhanging brows, looked, without the light contrast of the mask, to be sunk in like a corpse's empty stare. I did not flinch backwards, but I was unable to stop the gasp from coming from my mouth.

It was the gasp that actually undid him.

He cried aloud, in shock, and the sound of it went straight to my heart. I reached out a hand to pacify him, but he swung out at me, unseeing, for he had buried his face in one of his hands. His strong blow made contact with my wrist and knocked it against the bedpost. I fell back, holding it to my chest, for I was sure that I'd heard something crack, and I sank to the bench at the edge of the bed from both alarm and pain.

There was no sound in the room. Everything had happened so fast that I was not entirely sure that anything had happened at all. But though he did not dare look at me, I knew that the horror of his face was resting in the palm of his beautiful hand.

I held my wrist, and listened to his groans, and realized…the image might be burned into my eyes, but it caused me nothing but a passing shock. After all the anticipation, it almost seemed like an anticlimax. But I had to act now, before he had any impression to the contrary.

He had gone to his knees beside the bed, and I crawled towards him. Sitting on my knees beside him, not sure if he was actually aware of my presence, I considered the best thing to say.

"Erik," I said firmly.

He did not, or could not, look up.

"Erik," I repeated, "look at me."

The firm tone of my voice, which worked so often with children, also worked with him. His hand actually fell away from his face and he brought his eyes up to meet mine for the first time during our interview. I smiled at him, a real, genuine smile that he regarded with more wonder than relief. I put one hand to the painfully dry skin of his face, and leaned in close.

"It doesn't matter," I whispered. "It doesn't matter at all."

He stared at me, hands completely away from his face, as if he couldn't actually understand what I had just said to him. But the smile on my face could only convince him more. And I made sure that my eyes never left his.

"You…you gasped…" he murmured, eyes drifting from mine again.

I sat back on my heels in a huff. "Well, it might not matter to _me_, but you will forgive me if I say it was _bloody_ shocking all the same!"

His face snapped back towards mine, and I laughed then, putting my hands on his shoulders and bringing his mouth up to mine. After an earth-shattering kiss, we broke apart, on both sides wondering and amazed. I know that I was amazed because I was never one to initiate intimate physical contact. And I couldn't say was astounded him, but I think it had something to do with my reactions.

"Erik," I murmured, "you should have told me." I wanted him to know that I could have faced him at any time, on equal ground, if only he had let me know.

He shook his head fervently. "How could I?" his voice was ragged and fear-stricken. "You would have been repulsed…disgusted…"

"You should have let me be the judge of that." I said, gently, caressing the side of his face once again.

He finally cracked a weak smile. "I suppose," he said thickly, almost as though speaking through tears, "I did not trust you enough…to not be afraid."

"Well," I smiled, feeling the return of my cynical humor, "I would have been afraid regardless. You _did_ kidnap me, remember."

He lowered his head, bowing to me in repentance. I heaved a dramatic sigh.

"But," I continued magnanimously, "I guess that doesn't matter anymore. I'm truly caught. I think…" all of a sudden, I was terribly shy, "I think I'm in love with you."

_There_. It was awkward and shy and uncertain, but at least it was out there. And, like most of the things I had said today, I'd not known it to be true except for the moment before I'd said it.

Now it was I who couldn't meet his eyes. There was a long silence, and then…

"Do you really mean that?"

The question was so quiet, I might not have heard it had I not been focusing my whole being on it. With my head down, I nodded.

A strong hand hooked under my chin and brought my eyes up to a piercing green gaze. Right there, next to the bed, with the corner post sticking in my back, we kissed as if the only way we could stay alive was to be as close to each other as possible. And, for the longest time after, I actually thought that maybe it was.

I might have made it over the hardest hurdle by making this final plunge. But I knew that there were two loose ends that I just had to tie up before I began to start over with Erik. I told him that right after we broke for air.

"I need to talk to Meg and Raoul." I said, stroking his soft chestnut hair. "Meg is probably worried about me, back home, and Raoul…I could never forgive myself if I just left without saying goodbye to him."

I felt him stiffen. Immediately, I was afraid again, without knowing why. No, damn straight I knew why. What had he done to him?

I determined not to sound angry when I asked, but it needed to be said. "Do you know where they are?"

It was a neutral enough question, and I certainly expected an answer. What I received was the following: "Christine, do you trust me?"

Now, this was a double-edged sword. I could say 'yes', but then that would be selling myself short on any explanation that I could hope to get. If I said 'no', then I could say farewell to all the hopes of a future together with him. I wrestled with this while looking into his earnest, yet…frightened…eyes, and finally decided to err on the side of caution.

"Erik, I trust you now. But I need to know the truth." I stared into his eyes as earnestly as I could. "We cannot begin to live together on a foundation of lies."

He sighed, and for a long, terrible moment, I thought that he was actually not going to answer me. Eventually, however, he gave in. Sighing deeply, he took my hands in his, and again, I felt that tremor, almost as if he were horrified at the idea of never feeling them again.

"Speaking truthfully, Christine," he looked right at me when he spoke, a quality I found beautiful, "I cannot tell you about de Chagny. Meg, I know, is perfectly well."

I had been expecting more, and, reluctant as I was to press questions, I simply had to. "Why," my voice was shaking, "why don't you know if Raoul's all right?"

"I…I attacked him, Christine," my heart almost stopped in my chest, "I was afraid," he rushed on, "so afraid to lose you to him!" He brought my hands up to his lips, and kissed them again and again, so much so that I actually started to be afraid of his violence.

"Can we find out," I said, keeping my voice confidently level, "if he is all right?"

He stilled. "Nadir would know."

I was confused. "Nadir?"

Erik waved aside any questions I had, looking suddenly distracted. "One of my employees. He would know…"

Suddenly, Erik pulled me to my feet, taking the mask from where it had fallen on the edge of the bed and replacing it on his face, holding it there for there was no longer a string to attach it. Then, he turned to me, his manner distracted and businesslike.

"Christine, would you mind very much waiting here? I must find out where he has gone. He will know of de Chagny's condition, and your friend Meg is also almost certainly to be with him." He turned hurriedly towards the door and seemed likely to forget all about me. But then, gentleman that he was, he turned back and smiled at me, the expression partially masked by the hand that held his mask in place.

"I will return soon, my love."

When he was gone, my entire being thrilled with those two wonderful syllables. For the first time, I realized what a magnificent thing it was to love and to be loved in return.

How I had dozed off didn't matter. That the emotional turmoil in my mind hadn't been enough to keep me awake was also not the issue. What did matter was that he had taken advantage of my sleeping state and was using an age-old technique to wake me up.

And if he kissed me like that again, I might not actually open my eyes. I'd just let my fairy-tale prince keep trying for all eternity…

But eventually, his efforts brought me to myself—all right, so he resorted to tickling—and I opened my eyes.

"I have found him, Christine," he murmured, his mouth partially buried by my hair, "he actually beat us to Tehran, clever man. But then, he always did serve me well. I suppose he serves himself well, too."

I moved my mouth over to his cheek and pressed a firm kiss there. "I'm glad."

I had meant to say more, but his lips moved over mine, and I couldn't force myself to continue. What frightened me in his touch was the sense I had of his being afraid. I didn't know what to make of that. I had told him that I was his…in entirety. Could he not believe me after all? Or maybe, he suspected that what I would find out soon would make me hate him. It frightened me that I could not deny that suspicion. The future was still unbelievably uncertain, and I wasn't quite sure that I wanted to find out.

But duty drove me forward. I had to speak to Meg. And Raoul…I had to tell him…I just had to. I grimaced mentally about how it would sound…

"Hey, Raoul! Ha, ha, I know you think that I had a thing for you, but it turns out I really didn't and, oh yeah! I'm going to date the guy who murdered your brother!"

I sighed, breaking away from Erik's kiss and looking at him with eyes that felt like expressing everything in that one moment.

"When do we leave?"

He sighed, taking my face in his hands and studying me intently. "As soon as you want to." There seemed to be a quiet resignation in his tone, and it made me instinctively reach out to him.

I wanted to reassure him. "I'll just say goodbye," I promised, gently holding his face in my hands, "and then…it'll all be over."

The slight shake of his head didn't help the twisting feeling in my stomach.

Tehran was loud, busy, and dirty. I really didn't like it. But at least I was able to watch it from the comparable safety of a taxicab as we belted down little dirty alleys filled with the dregs of humanity. I closed my eyes and leaned my head on Erik's shoulder, breathing in his comforting smell, thinking of the ordeal that I still had coming to me. I wondered if I would be able to look into both pairs of eyes and keep going.

Erik's arm came around me, strengthening and calming me. There were so many reasons to be afraid of him, but at the same time I just couldn't hold any of those reasons against him. The hardships of his life—for there must have been many—justified quite a bit in my eyes. And I wanted so badly to believe that he would change for me. If he loved me, then there would be no need for death in his life anymore.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, but really, according to my watch, was only twenty minutes, we pulled up to the front of a very tidy house somewhere in a suburb of the roiling city.

My legs almost gave way under me when I stepped out of the car; they had been cramped so long that a natural standing position was almost out of my power.

The house seemed ominously forbidding, but I knew that was just because I was dreading the confrontation that lay within. Erik had to help me up the stairs, and just before he knocked on the door, I gripped his hand so tightly that I thought I was going to break something. My heart pounded wilding, my face turning pale and all instincts inside of me just telling me to run.

But I couldn't. How terrible would that be?

The door swung open, pushed by the hand of…a servant. I nearly fainted as we were shown into a small side parlor, there to await the arrival of the master of the house. Erik gave our names, and we both sat down in the airless little room. Great. Now I was going to start to sweat like a pig.

From upstairs, I heard a muffled shriek. Two seconds later, footsteps barreled down the stairs, and Meg was in the room, hanging on to my neck with all the strength in her deceptively wiry little arms.

"My God…" she cried, burying her face in my shoulder, "my God, Christine!"

I clung to her as hard as I could, and for a moment, nothing else mattered but staying that way. I didn't realize how much I had missed her.

And then her head was up, and she was staring at Erik with undisguised animosity.

"What the _fuck_," she said slowly, "is _he_ doing here?"


	19. Chapter Nineteen

For a moment, I didn't want to believe what I was seeing. After I'd let go of her, she'd run right over to his side, entwining her arm with his, in the most frightening picture of attraction I'd ever seen. His tall, dark figure, and her tiny, insignificant one, made me feel almost as if her being were being dominated by his presence. I shivered, and repeated my question.

"Christine…what is he doing here?" I wanted to add—'the bastard', but Christine had never been much one for the swearing.

"Meg," she began, staring at me with those intense eyes of hers, "Meg, I know this will be hard to understand."

I retreated until I felt Nadir's presence behind me. "Why do I get the feeling that this is going to involve me chasing you around with a rolled-up newspaper?"

She stared at me, and then burst into hysterical giggles, as if all the tension and anxiety had gone out of our meeting. Even I smiled as I thought of the memory of two summers ago, when I'd been crushing over this no-good guy, and she'd literally run me ragged over the neighborhood, beating me with a rolled-up newspaper, when I admitted that I'd slept with him. After that, it always became our code word for disapproval in each other. This time, though, I actually hadn't wanted to make her laugh. I was really very dangerously upset. But, it had been so natural, that it just slipped out.

There were tears rolling down her face when she lifted it back up towards me, but her eyes were grim. She sighed. "Meg, I'm sorry…" she began, and then stopped, digging her fists into her hips, "No!" she cried, "I'm not sorry for falling in love with him." She looked at me, her eyes hard but imploring. "Meg, I'm sorry for all the trouble I've put you through. I'm sorry for making you worry. But I am not sorry for finally finding…" she smiled, again her eyes clouding with tears, "what you assumed I would never find."

Our conversation was so full of phrases with meanings known to ourselves, that it might be hard for an observer to actually understand. I got her meaning immediately. She had found…her knight in shining armor. I cringed. When I had first seen them, I'd not known what to think. Then, seeing them standing together, I had assumed that Nadir was right, that some psychological mind-fuck was at work here. But now…

I knew Christine. And I knew that she would never, ever say that unless she was absolutely certain.

The eyes that she looked at me with were solid, steady, and determined. She knew she didn't need my approval; and she would always act in the way that she thought best. And she would never compromise that, even for me. But how could I now tell her that the man that she loved had cold-bloodedly murder her father and her friend? How could I throw her into such a horrible moral debacle, between her heart and her sense? I was her friend, but _was_ honesty always the best policy?

I found that I couldn't say anything to her bald-faced confession.

Behind me, Nadir cleared his throat.

"Well," he said, sounding a little uncertain himself, "I, for one, Meg, would like to speak to Erik alone. Would you take Christine into the second sitting room and speak to her? I'm sure that you would like to speak to her by yourself."

Christine and I both agreed, silently, and left the room. The soft mumble of voices behind us was all we could hear. We walked in total silence, and when we reached the room, we both stared at either the ceiling or the carpet, wondering what to say.

There was one thing I wanted to establish right from the beginning. "Christine, do you love him?"

She looked right at me, and said, "Yes, I do."

She must have seen my dumbfounded expression, and when I couldn't think of anything to say, she rushed on.

"Look, I know what you're going to say! I know you think," she stopped, sighed, ran her hand through her hair, and went on, "I know you think that this is some kind of brain-washing, or something. Trust me," she smiled, "I worried about that too.

"But there's something about Erik," she continued, her eyes starting to look dreamy, "that makes me realize that it's not. I really do like him, Meg." She shook her head, "I mean, I love him. I'm just not used to saying it right now. Please," her voice was imploring, "please, believe me…I don't think anyone else will."

"Christine," I whispered. There was so much I wanted to say, so much I wanted to tell her! _He killed your father! He killed Raoul!_ It would be so easy to shout those two phrases to her. And then what? She'd be horrified, revolted, terrified…she'd be crushed.

"Nothing you say," she said, firmly, "nothing you say is going to make me forget that I love him. Nothing Raoul could say would make me forget that either. I don't care what he's done—it's over now! I can help him; together we can go away, and he can forget all that he's done. His past, Meg…it's so horrible! And he's haunted by it, I know, every single day. I can help him, because I can love him when no one else could."

I shook my head, trying to avoid her intense gaze, and focusing on the window instead. If Erik really was that tortured…ah, what was I thinking? She deserved to know what he was, what he had done! It wasn't just some assassinations anymore, to some corrupt political figure. This was her own family, her friend, and who knows? It might have been me.

"Meg," she sounded like she was crying, "why aren't you saying anything?"

I had to make a decision, and I had to make it now.

"Meg," she whispered, "Meg, please…"

I looked at her, full in the face, for perhaps the first time since I'd seen her again. "Do you love him?" I wanted to be sure, absolutely sure.

Her eyes showed the unreasoning hope of her heart. "Yes," she breathed.

"Christine," I said, taking a deep breath, "be happy with him, then."

She smiled, and two tears ran down her face. I hugged her and wiped my tears away behind her back. I was committed now, and really, I only did want her to be happy.

The two of us talked for about ten more minutes, and, after the tension of the first confession, the floodgates seemed to have opened. We were scrupulous to avoid the last few weeks, but we were such good friends that our conversation managed to flow with hardly any moments of awkwardness. She was still crying from relief, silently and intermittently, but she didn't want me to see her tears, and she wiped them away as quickly as they flowed.

When Nadir entered the room, I admitted that I was shocked; I'd almost forgotten about them both. But there they were, the tall, silent figure of the masked man, about whom I knew nothing, and the short Persian man who seemed in as much emotional turmoil as I was. He motioned me out of the room, and I saw Erik go down to his knees in front of Christine, and I saw her bury her head in the crux of his neck.

Nadir shut and locked the door behind him. He pocketed the key, and turned to me with a wry smile.

"That does no good, of course," he said, "Erik will hear what Erik wishes to hear. I only hope he has the same respect for my privacy as he used to have."

Sudden realization dawned on me. "You didn't tell him either, did you?"

He made a helpless gesture with his hands. "He is in love, Meg!" he cried, softly, "The thing I wished would never happen to him finally has. I knew," he continued, running one hand through his graying hair, "I knew that once he did, he would fight for her with all his incomparable strength." He sighed, deeply, and sat down on one of the tasseled floor pillows.

"Had Erik known about Christine's feelings," he went on, "he should never have attacked Raoul. This he tells me, and I believe him. He does not mean to be evil, and he does not kill for pleasure. But he is jealous, and he was afraid of Raoul as a rival. Still, he should not have killed him for any other reason. I could not find it in my heart to condemn him for this."

"He loves Christine?" I asked, wanting to know the whole truth. "He won't hurt her, or abuse her, or anything like that?"

Nadir shook his head fervently. "He would rather cut off his own hands, Meg! I have never seen him like this before, but I know his heart. Anything he loves will never be hurt by his hands."

I stood in silence for a moment. Then, I decided to make my own confession. "I didn't tell Christine, either."

I couldn't look at him, but I felt his question. "She loves him too much. I could never hurt her like that, tearing her away from him. She would never be able to forgive him for killing her father, and she would never be able to forgive herself for abandoning him to darkness. It would kill them both." I sighed, holding my head in my hands. "Let the truth lie buried."

I met Nadir's eyes, and I saw the dawning acceptance there too. "It is the best course," he finally agreed.

As much as it bothered me to have to put on a happy face and go back to Christine with my mouth full of pleasant lies, I know that it would have hurt me more to destroy both of their lives for the sake of the dead. Raoul, I mourned, would never have the respect he deserved in death, but how could I justify to myself killing the both of them over something that would never change?

Christine met me with a hug and kisses, after which we said our goodbyes, both parties needing time alone to absorb what had—and in some cases, hadn't—been said. Erik said that he had a house in the city, where they would stay for the night. It had been a long day for the both of them, he said, and they would come back and see us tomorrow. I managed a nod and smile in his direction, and another hug for Christine, and then they were both gone.

I thought all evening and all night about what I had done. I had lied. I had ignored two murders…and for what? For the peace of mind of my best friend? For the peace of mind of a murderer?

I knew that I would never forget, I would never live down what I had done. I even saw that the deception lay heavily on Nadir's mind. We were both silent during dinner, and even the antics of Reza towards me and the quiet kindness of Mashid to her husband were not enough to bring us out of our dark thoughts.

I went to bed very early, but of course, not to sleep. I stood for about an hour and a half, staring out the window, waiting for some sort of explanation, some sort of acceptance to help me over what I had just done. I had never been in this sort of moral dilemma before, and quite frankly, I hoped that I would never be in one again.

I tossed and turned for several hours after that, alternately hoping and dreading Christine and Erik's visit the next day, and no one was more astonished than I when I woke up to Christine's face, and already it was noon of the next day.

"Nadir's been worried about you," she scolded me, her face playfully severe, "but he didn't want to come in, just in case you happened to be…" her voice lowered, "…indecent."

I laughed, rather drowsily, and sat up, running my hand over my head and feeling how my hair was sticking up.

"You look like a perfect scarecrow," Christine reassured me, pushing aside my tangled bangs, "and the only thing that's gonna fix it is a shower."

I grumbled and pulled the covers back up to my chest. "Ah, Christine, you've always been so wonderfully comforting."

She laughed. "It's a gift." Then she sighed, and I couldn't see, but I knew that her face had clouded up. "I missed you so much, Meg."

I sat up, attentive, and studied her face. I had been wrong in my first appraisal. She was very worried, and her good humor, which so often helped those around her, was nowhere close to as cheerful as it normally was. Suddenly, I realized that she had not been as insouciant of the outside world as I had considered.

"What's wrong, Christine?" I asked.

She looked at me, and her gaze fell to her hands, as she twiddled her fingers in and out of knots. "Where's Raoul?"

That question took my breath away. Quite frankly, the fact that she hadn't _asked_ about him at all yesterday had given me the false impression that she hadn't _thought_ about him at all.

And I had no idea what to say. Lies were not my forte, and my mind had just gone blank. I looked at her with my mouth wide open.

At least she took the attack into her own hands. "Erik hurt him badly, didn't he?"

I think my 'yes', must have sounded a little too eager. But Christine did not seem to notice at all.

She sighed and shook her head. "I thought so. But he's alive, right?"

I had gotten a little more control over myself, and I managed to infuse my second 'yes' with a little more conviction.

The tension in her face eased a little. "I'm so glad, Meg, you have no idea." She fumbled with her purse, and produced a thick envelope. "I figured I might not get the chance to talk to him before I left, so I wrote him this."

The letter, which she pushed into my hesitant hands, was very neatly addressed to 'M Raoul de Chagny'. At least I managed to keep the wince off of my face.

Christine looked absolutely miserable. "I want him to know…" her voice trembled, and she fought to control it, "I want him to know that I appreciate everything that he did. And," her eyes begged me, "could you tell him that…that I loved him very much."

I must have looked astounded, for she very quickly clarified.

"I mean," she spluttered, "not in that way. But I really did like him. He was a good friend. I just want him to know that, so, if he doesn't get that from the letter, please fill in the blanks for him."

I nodded, smiling for the first time that day. "I will, Christine."

And she smiled too. "That was the only thing I really wanted him to know. That, and the fact that I was sorry." She laughed then, and gestured to the letter. "But I'm sure he'll read enough of that in the letter. I think I said it about fifty million times!"

I showered, got dressed, and went downstairs to where Nadir, Mashid, Reza, Erik and Christine were already eating breakfast. I joined them, and Christine, Nadir and I managed to carry on a fairly fluent conversation, given the circumstances. Erik seemed to be naturally silent, and I might have been suspicious of him still, but the looks that he gave Christine during the conversation were enough to convince me of his seriousness. He would love her until the day he died, and most likely afterwards too. I sighed, picking at my food. I suppose that was all I could ask. Christine and I were both still young. I'm sure that we could still believe in the healing power of love.

Christine seemed very enthusiastic about moving back to Paris, and she actually almost talked me into moving there with her, but I reminded her that I had left my parents in the lurch back home, and if I was very lucky, I might get away with a two month grounding. When I mentioned that my parents did not know where I was, Christine was silent, her red face down towards her plate, and I could tell she wanted to beg my forgiveness again, so I forestalled it with asking Christine how she was going to dodge the social services from back home.

She and Erik glanced at each other. This was clearly a subject of much amusement between them.

"Well, I'm no longer Christine Day, am I?" she said, holding her left hand towards me. A simple gold band encircled her ring finger. "When I get married, I'll be Mrs. Erik Troche. And until then, Erik can get me a new identification."

I wanted to ask 'can he do that', when I caught the dangerously humorous glint in Erik's eyes. I settled for smiling and taking a rather large bite of toast, winking at Christine over the pitcher of milk.

For the first time since breakfast began, Erik spoke. "Christine Day will be yet another child who has fallen through the rather scant net of the social services, and no one will notice that in the least."

Just listening to his speaking voice was like attending a concert. Knowing how much Christine loved music, I could see where she must have fallen in love with its incarnation. His voice was flawless and wonderful, and I wondered just how many times a man could be gifted with such an instrument. Christine had been moaning about the dearth of perfect lyric tenors in the world, and it looked like one had just fallen in her lap! Which reminded me of something else I wanted to know.

"So are you still going to write your operas?"

I saw Nadir look at her sharply, obviously never having realized why Erik had been so drawn to Christine, and I saw Erik glance at her, another smile touching the corner of his mouth.

Christine herself smiled broadly and leaned forward. "No." she said simply.

I had to admit, I was shocked. Christine's career had always been of the utmost importance to her.

Before I had too long to worry, though, she continued on.

"I'm going to have them staged."

I laughed, leaning across the table to give her a high-five. "Atta girl!" I crowed, "Tell me when and I'll try to get a ticket!"

"Unh-uh," she shook her head, "when it comes out, you'll get a letter, a copy of the libretto, a round trip ticket to Paris, and a seat in your own private box."

I whistled, rubbing my fingers together in the symbol of big money. "Aren't we getting a little big for our britches, then, hmm?"

Christine bobbed her head with mock modesty, and then declared, "No, not really, no."

I grinned.

Christine, Erik, Nadir and I all took a plane back to Paris. The only thing that marred the happiness of our parting was the terrible, wrenching farewell between Nadir and his family. Erik though, parted with a firm declaration that he would find a way to get both Mashid and Reza out of the country. Nadir had done enough for him in the past, he assured her, to make this nothing more than a favor that was long overdue.

Christine and I chatted endlessly about what her opera was about. She told me firmly that the plot was still to be a surprise. I hit her over the back of the head, but I was really glad that some things never, ever changed. Christine was so modest about her personal ability, and she was so afraid of rejection, that I thought it would be a miracle to have anything of hers ever produced. Somehow, I felt grateful to Erik for giving her the confidence to actually proceed with her cherished career. Very few people, boys especially, I remembered, actually appreciated that about her. It was one of the reasons why she had never really dated, and one of the reasons why she had never been in love.

Until now. I had to admit, the way the two of them fit together, they were perfect. Both intelligent, driven, highly sensitive people, who cared for little outside of what lay in the heart. Though I dreaded going home without Christine, and facing the inquisitorial squad of my parents, I could hardly resent her for being this happy. I kept my thoughts to myself, and chatted with her in conspiratorial whispers about her wedding and when she wanted me back in Paris.

She and Erik had agreed, she told me, not to get married before her eighteenth birthday. But, she said, since she wanted me there so badly, she would try to make the date somewhere before the end of the summer, so hopefully I wouldn't miss much college by attending her wedding.

In Paris, we finally parted. I knew, though, as I walked through the terminal to my return flight home, that I would see her soon enough. And, though I probably had every reason to be, I was not scared about my family's reception of me.

The last thing I saw of the three of them was the white mask gleaming at me in the distance.


	20. Epilogue

_EPILOGUE:_

After that, what is there that needs to be said?

Erik and I were married on August 4th, 2005, the day after my eighteenth birthday. My best friend Meg was on hand for both events, taking more control over my wedding than I could have wanted, arranging for the flowers and my wedding dress, as well as the refreshments. Well, I suppose it could have been worse; Meg always did have excellent taste, and as distracted as I was by Erik, I might have made a mess of things. My dress was lavender satin, a smooth sheath of watery cloth that was finer than anything I'd ever worn in my life before, and was just fine enough to be able to be worn again, at the premier of my opera.

Before I talk about that, what should I say about the wedding? I noticed nothing about it…in fact, all I remember is the look in Erik's face, right before he kissed me at the priest's final word. There was such a curious look on his face, as if he had made a wager with someone, and he looked slightly chagrined, as if he had lost that wager. I always did mean to ask him about that, but something always seemed to get in the way.

I invited no one to my wedding except Meg and her family. They, thankfully, didn't seem to resent me so much for my interruption of Meg's life, and thankfully, Meg didn't suffer either for missing the last six days of school either. Nothing changed between us, save for the fact that we got closer, because if you don't see someone for six months in a row, you definitely miss talking to her.

Nadir was Erik's only guest, so my wedding was probably too small to satisfy most women. Still, it was more than enough for me, and considering some of the looks that were directed in our direction, at times I thought there were too many people there for our good.

At that point, Nadir's family was just about to be released from Iran. Erik had pulled some strings, which in turn moved some mountains, and not only were Mashid and Reza free to leave the country, but Nadir's pension from the police force was returned to its full amount. I will never forget the two of them dancing at our wedding. It seemed too perfect for words.

The night afterwards…well…I don't think I'll discuss that either. Better for the memory to bloom in my mind than to be confined to a small sheet of paper, spelled out by words and crushed by pathetic written expressions of emotion. Anyone who has loved will understand how I felt, on that wonderful night.

And that feeling continued for all the days afterwards. Now, as I look back on those early days, four long years ago, I can hardly tell where the time has gone. Everything seems much the same. _I _am different, and _he_ is different, but in no great way. I am now 22, and he is 41. That is all.

My first opera premiered exactly 12 months after our wedding. I still smile when I look back on it. Erik looked upon the entire thing as his child, and of course, I argued and fought with him over who controlled what. I eventually ended up taking over, because he always managed to underestimate me, when it came to my knowledge of the theatre. Oh, there were so many nightmares in those days! I actually cried over trying to find the right tenor…we must have auditioned hundreds!

Set design, casting, costuming, and finally, the terrible rush of that final rehearsal. And then, that night…I can still feel my hands shake as I remember trying to put on my earrings. I think I stabbed myself six times, at least, and I was only saved from dying of blood loss by Erik, who took my earrings away from me and gave me a stiff brandy instead.

The other thing that worried me about the opera premier was whether or not Erik would come with me. I constantly encouraged him to come with me to different public events, teasing him and testing him to go further, to try harder. In those first days, he clung to me with childish fear, sensing rejection in the faces of the people around him. And then…one day, he was finally confidant; in fact, it was the day of the opera premier. We stood and blushed together as the audience applauded us, and though it was my triumph, I knew it was just as important to him because he had finally conquered his fears.

Of course, whispers and rumors followed us everywhere. But we didn't let them torture us. When one of the tabloids slandered us, we reared back and made such a statement that none of the papers dared approach us for an interview for months afterwards.

Erik himself, well, he still wears the mask. However, it is the first thing that comes off when we are home together in the evening. Together, though. He wears it when he is home by himself, I know. Though, I would never ask him to go without it in the outside world. I've seen horror movies and tabloid slanders—especially the last—and I would never expose him to that. I am proud of him for trusting me so much, especially considering his childhood and early adulthood. The fact that he trusts anyone is amazing.

What happened afterwards? All the days seem to blend together as I think of it. Each one has been beautiful, and certainly, there have been rough spots, but for the most part, our love has been more than sufficient. I was glad to find that to be true, because, quite frankly, I had been afraid that it would not be. Ridiculous.

There have been other operas since. Erik produced one of his own, a beautiful masterpiece entitled 'Don Juan Triumphant', in which both he and I starred, and that might actually be my favorite memories from these past years.

Actually, the memory I'm making now might be even better. I smile, glancing again at the test results that the doctor just handed me two hours ago. Positive. Positive across the board. I smile and put my hand on my stomach. Eight months and one week from now, and there would be a treasure chest of memories all ready to be made.

I am not sure whether or not I will tell him now. Maybe I will wait until Friday. It is his turn to produce an opera; mine was the last one to come out, and he has been busy at the theatre every day this week. In fact, it was that time alone that allowed me to ascertain why exactly I couldn't keep down my breakfast. Of course, I had my suspicions, since I have been married for four years, but there could have been many other explanations. But I'm happiest about this one.

Friday, I will tell him.

And a new chapter will begin.

_FINIS_

Author's Notes:

Well, ladies and gentleman…that was it. Cosi Fan Tutte is officially at an end. Now, before I let you go, I want to explain several things.

First: The title 'Cosi Fan Tutte' is the title of an opera by Mozart. It's in Italian, and it means 'As Do They All'. I thought it would be a good way of poking fun at myself; since, after all, I'm not writing anything that's so very different from what's already been done. Christine winds up with Erik and everything is happy happy joy joy. Of course, this is how I think it would actually happen, so I don't mind it so much.

Second: There are some things that I did that I know some people are confused about. I killed Raoul, which almost never happens. Quite frankly, I don't know why it doesn't. In my mind, if Erik really saw Raoul as a rival, Raoul would be dead. Erik might be noble, but not concerning a rival for Christine's affections. While he makes concessions when they address Christine's specific wishes, I don't think he would suffer Raoul to be a potential rival. I don't actually hate Raoul as some people do; I think that he actually does love Christine very much, and such love makes him good enough in my book. I might think he's a coughpansycough but that doesn't color the fact that he was just a product of his age. Just look at all the men in that movie…if pansy applies to anyone, it's Piangi, or Andre, right? Raoul is Rambo in comparison.

Third: I know that a lot of you were expecting a great big confrontation and angst scene between Erik and Christine. I was actually intending on writing this, and spending another ten chapters getting them back together. In my notes, this was all ready to be written. Then, about two chapters ago, I had a brain wave. If I were in Meg's place, being best friends with Christine, would I actually tell her the truth, if I knew that she loved Erik? Would I destroy her chance at happiness? Would I throw her into such a moral dilemma? I don't think so. Honesty is not always the best policy. And it _really_ wouldn't be here.

Also, if I'm going to be quite honest here, I was getting tired of writing dark fiction. I figured I'd give my fingers a break (they've been going non-stop since I've gotten to college) as well as my mind, and have the great big happy ending a lot sooner.

Forth: Many people have told me that my Erik is very dark, manipulative and controlling. Well, I think that this is actually what he should be. Anyone who has read the original Leroux understands that Erik is not a sugar-coated character. He is tortured, lonely, and his views of humanity are very, very skewed. Christine sets him straight, but not until the very end of the book. Murder is not something that he is unfamiliar with, and if Erik thinks that someone needs to die in order to make either his, or especially, Christine's life better, then it's pretty much a done deal. The murder of Christine's father (the description of which I'm really quite proud of) therefore seems to me to be a very likely occurrence, especially if Erik thought him unworthy of Christine.

So much for general explanations. I'd like now to thank the people who reviewed.

**Provacateur:** You win the prize for having the most complete reviews. Every time that I was flagging behind and thinking about stopping, you were right there, complimenting me about something that I was doing, and making it that much easier for me to keep going. Thank you so much for your compliments and your support. There is one question of yours that I would like to answer. I referred to Nadir as Persian and not Iranian because he was referred to in Raoul's and Erik's point of view. I know that in European countries that Iranians are sometimes still referred to as Persian. I also thought that his character would be more consistent and recognizable when referred to like that. I know that technically it's probably not correct, but I prefer it that way.

**Kagome1514:** You win the prize for being the most consistent reviewer. I don't think there was a chapter that you didn't review after you had started reading. You even went back several chapters, and left a review on each one. Thank you for your support, and I have actually read some of your stories, and I will review them, but you must forgive me for having a lot of stuff on my plate right now. By the way, keep up with your French…it's the language of our beloved Phantom, after all!

**Phanatic:** You rock! Everyone needs to be told that they're doing the right thing, and I appreciated your reviews a lot. Thanks!

I grovel at the feet of these two reviewers:

**Wandering Child:** I appreciate your compliments as regards my characterization. I always try to imagine what exactly they would do and say. Thank you, and I hoped you liked more in my story than that.

**Kat097:** You win a prize for being one of my first reviewers, back when my story was a little seedling idea in the back of my head. I was reading your story just as eagerly as I was writing my own, and I thank you for taking the time to review.

**Huntress4Peace:** I don't think that you reviewed more than once, and you were anonymous, so I could never return the favor, but you were the first reviewer ever, and that always makes writing so much easier, when you have your first word of encouragement. Thank you, thank you, thank you for being numero uno!

**Erik'sTrueAngel** and **Musique de la Nuit:** You guys were the first two consistent reviewers I had, and you've both stuck it through with me till the end, and I can safely say, if it hadn't been for people like you, I might have finished, but not nearly as soon. Thank you for consistency, and encouragement.

**Amariel Rowan:** Your first words in your first review were 'Holy Shit'…yes, you can swear in a review, as long as it's a good swear! I burst out laughing when I read that, and every so often, I go back and look at it, just to remember how cool that was. Sometimes, I wish more people would have swears in their reviews. You made me laugh and write even harder. Thanks.

**Meghan: **For the most enthusiastic reviews, you definitely win the prize! For each chapter, I could hear you jumping up and down and screaming for joy. I'm so glad that I could make you as happy as writing makes me. Thank you!

**IndiaPyro:** You win the prize for most similar reviews. But, I enjoyed being reminded that I should always be writing, more, and more, and more!

**Terpsichore314:** HAH! Yes! Someone else who likes Lolita! Actually, I hadn't thought about Erik in those terms before, but now, you've got it stuck in my head! For the creepiness factor, I will agree with you. For giving me a new perspective on my own Erik, I thank you and send you a prize all your own.

**A Phantom Moon:** For most bloodthirsty reviewer, you have a category all your own. You complimented me on Charles' death, when I expected people to yell and scream at me for being terribly angsty. I was really thrilled to hear that you enjoyed it so much. I enjoyed writing it very much; it's probably my favorite chapter from an artistic point of view.

**Phantomforever:** I really enjoyed your compliments about my writing style. I am so glad to hear that it moved you in such a way, making you scared and tense and happy and all of that. You let me know that I was achieving my goal as a writer, and I am thrilled and complimented, thank you!

**Anisky **and** Ethalas Tuath'an:** You both made sure that I knew what you did and did not like about what I was doing. I'm sorry I moved the story along slower, but what I really hate is coming into a story and not knowing anything about what is going on, or knowing nothing about the motives of the characters. It is in my nature to be more complete and thorough, giving a better estimate of everything that's going on. Still, your reviews were appreciated and taken into consideration. Thank you for being honest and reviewing consistently!

**Dove of Night** and **Waiting for Calm:** You two always loved my writing, and for that I thank you over and over again. Each chapter, you two had something great to say about it. Thanks for the encouragement.

**Original Cliché:** There are several points of yours that I would like to answer now.

I wanted Erik's motives to be a little unclear, but generally I tried to have him narrate what exactly he was after in each chapter. Try going back and reading his thoughts, I'm pretty sure I covered everything there.

I couldn't make the story Raoul/Meg. My best friend's name is Maegen, and she would have killed me, especially since I took from her character to give life to Meg. She hates Raoul. Besides, I wasn't sure if I wanted to keep Raoul alive at that point.

Erik wanted Christine's letters to arrive so that Raoul would be in a better position to kill. Remember, Erik really wanted Raoul to die at great length, and in great pain.

Erik uses the dollar simply because the Euro is a newer form of money. He doesn't trust it not to collapse. Remember, just because the Euro is stronger now doesn't mean that it can't change. (I confess, my love of the dollar results from me being American…so sue me smiles)

You are right, Bel Canto is a style from the 1800s, used, I believe, by coloratura sopranos. I meant, in the context of the sentence, that modern singing uses a style of Bel Canto. Bel Canto was when a singer would vocalize around a note before landing on it. If you listen to modern pop, there is a sound of Bel Canto in it.

You kept me on my toes, and I appreciate it! Thanks, and I hope this clarifies things for you!

**tink20** and **you'llbemyangel:** My two latest, most consistent reviewers, thank you! You might have missed me earlier, but I thank you very much for encouragement during these last, difficult chapters. You have no idea how hard it was for me to drag myself back to the computer, especially with the end in sight.

**kristina **and** Chantal:** Thank you for your reviews, you have no idea how seeing a note from you made it easier to write.

I think that should do it! For all of you who only reviewed once, I thank you for your notes, and they encouraged me to keep going. For all of those who read the story, I wish that you would leave a note as a farewell. I accept anonymous reviews, and all it takes is a click on the button on the bottom of your screen. I want to know if you enjoyed the story, and if you didn't, I'd like to know what I could do better in the future. But, if you didn't review, please come back and read my next Phantom fanfiction. I'll appreciate the little hit counter going up, if nothing else.

Ladies and Gentleman, I would just like to thank you all again. Don't worry, I can't stop writing for long, I'll be back. Please, if you liked my fic now, stop by again and see my newest. I would love to hear from you again.

And now, as it is 12:16 on Monday the 12 of September, and I have class in 9 hours, I think I should really go to bed. Goodnight, all!


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